Mistakes Like This
by Onyxx-09
Summary: It was a funny, sneaky game they played, a risky dance in every sense of the way. By night they were euphoric and the day was filled with long glances. But they never spoke. They shouldn't. It was a secret after all, one only the bed covers knew. No one knew. No one needed to know. And it was going fine until a little red came along wanting to scoop him up. Friends with benefits AU
1. Naughty

**_A/N: This short story is loosely based from the song "Mistakes Like This" by Prelow. It has explicit content and writing, so you have been_** ** _warned._**

 ** _Summary: If you've read my short story Neptune, I've decided to make another story, this time a short one about Isobel. Now this isn't a happy story. Well, not completely. A war is coming and a school, once free, is being taken over by a sadistic tyrant in pink after all._**

 ** _This story is about a girl, Isobel MacDougal, a young Gryffindor who is just trying to find her way, and in the process, found herself in the arms of a boy. She found herself wrapped in these arms many nights and behind closed doors. But he was a troubled boy, one whom things never seemed to go right around and he attracted quite a bit of trouble. They were just two students trying to survive in a capitalist land where sometimes things aren't what they seem._**

 ** _"Sometimes things aren't what they appear."_**

 ** _Isobel didn't know to what extent this reached but soon she will learn. She will learn that hard lesson in the arms of another who owned her all. She, in the mist of trying to pass classes, with school drama, a war on the rise, and trying to keep her own relationships afloat, Isobel will learn this at an ultimate price._**

 ** _[Disclaimer:_** _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing_ ** _]_**

* * *

She gasped loudly, her back arching on its on accord, and her lips parting in a breathless, silent cry. Her hands found his chest and pushed against it, her back going limp and her body begins falling backwards, lost in the pleasure and his large hands were there to catch her, wrapping around her thin waist to hold her steady.

Bodies are trembling and pants filled the room, as did the heat from them being so close and so intimate.

Her long hair was raunchy and tumbled behind her. He had said he liked her hair, once. Sometimes he would run his hands through it; said her long waves and curls smelled of a sweet scent, something that he couldn't put his finger on, a smell almost like flowers. Earlier, he had tangled it around his fingers and yanked her head back, and she had moaned about it. She moaned loudly. He liked that shit.

Her hair fell behind them, a mess of bushy waves and curls splaying behind her back and over her bosom before he brushed it aside from her right mound to grabbed it for himself.

Her lip would catch between her teeth as his found the pulse on her throat and he would search for that special point that made her lips tremble and unholy noises come from her.

He was venomous; he was like poison to her, like as something that she knew would come back around and destroy her in the end. But it was moments like these that she didn't think of it; neither cared much for the addiction both caused each other. Right now, everything else would wait.

It was in moments like these where it was just them, that they were all this is, was, and will be. It was in these moments they relished in the pleasure they produced together even for a few hours to have her arms around his shoulders as he kissed—no, _made_ those feelings go away, even just for a limited time.

Now, she could feel him all over her and could guess that there would be another hickie when he finished, and she wasn't surprised in the slightest.

She squirmed against him at feeling his tongue slide up her neck and a thought came to her that he seemed more urgent and hasty this time, his motions more rough and hands grabbed like she would slip away. She didn't protest.

And he liked leaving her hickies. His mouth was always merciless that way.

Her fingers found his shoulders and nails bit down harshly. Her other hand sliding down his chest as she felt his tongue slide across her jugular and over a bruise he had made earlier in their session. His breath was hot and feeling it splay across her bare skin made her stomach twist happily. A small noise escaped her throat as he gave a small buck of his hips and she moaned between tight lips.

Her plump lips opened to form a wide O-shape at feeling his mouth everywhere, and when his hand traveled to the small of her back, pushing them closer, she just about lost it.

It was in moments like these that made her want to shout and cry out in ecstasy. And he saw this coming, and wrapped a hand around her mouth to keep her quiet. He watched as her eyes squeeze shut as she let out a loud, yet luckily muffled mewl as she squirmed above him.

He glanced down for a moment to where they were still connected, feeling her muscles begin to tremble.

His hips rolled and she whimpered. She caught his hand sliding to her stomach and the quick look that passed his face as he bit his lip when they moved together.

And when he turned his eyes up at her, bright and marvelous as sparkling jade gems that boring into her, she found she couldn't hold his stare—she never could. And as she turned away, a bit shy now of all moments, something inside her made her toes curl and her breath hitches. His mouth attacks under her ear and she feels her stomach clench in that familiar giddy as he starts yet another hickie. His teeth graze her skin as his hot breath hits her ear and he groans.

She tries not to let out her nervous giggle right now as his hands slid across her body.

She watches the muscles of his abdomen stretch under her hand, a knuckle of her other finding her mouth and from her full lips his name flows like a mantra.

At one moment, their faces come together, so close that noses were touching and lips were already opened at ready. But they did nothing; they didn't touch. That was the one rule she had made: that they could look, they could touch, but kissing was a _no_. It was off limits.

Kissing was too intimate.

 **. . . .**

That next morning, she had to be woken up to someone shaking her shoulder. Her roommates gathering the last of their supplies for class and calls of "you're gonna be late, Isobel," and "took you long enough to wake up" being reminders that the weekend was now over. She had merely looked toward them and then turned back over in bed. The sun was bright and blinded her when she sat up.

"What're you smiling at so early this morning?! You have Potions this morning, remember?!" one of the girls said to her, a girl with shoulder-lengthed straight black hair with the name Melanie.

Isobel wasn't smiling, just smirking slightly, hugging her pillow, still wrapped in her comforter.

Though she had a slight ache, she felt all she needed was a good stretch of her muscles before beginning the day. She thought it best to do so after they all left the room after seeing she was bare under the covers.

Isobel waited until all the girls rushed out their shared bedroom and it was once again empty before she sat up in bed. The sunlight was dancing around the room and warmed her bare skin. She wasn't surprised to awake alone, not in the slightest. They've done this enough times for it to be expected, routine.

She stretched and there was a slight throbbing, an empty feeling between her legs. She didn't much care if she was late for class today, she thought as she rubbed her eyes and yawned. She was too tired to think about stuff like that anyways. She had had her release, her "little fix," as she liked to call it. She was relaxed and stress free and couldn't give a care in the world right now this early in the morning.

 **. . . .**

The halls of Hogwarts were emptying out by now, and she turned the corner towards the dungeon, adjusting her books under her arms. She caught sight of a few robes hurrying past in the direction the classroom and she quickened her pace. She focused on keeping her head clear for class—she had to focus this time.

When she had hung her feet over the edge of her bed that morning, feeling her hair fall behind her and thought it would no doubtly be a mess and the reason that she would be late.

She had looked down at herself—light red markings could be seen on her tan skin that collected around her thighs. Marks of _his_ presence. Like a ghost these moments were, gone without a trace and any evidence except for a slight aching and a memory.

She had almost fell when she first stood from bed that morning, knees buckling for a second.

There were a few who were rushing inside the dungeon classroom now. It was a group of tall boys and they looked quite familiar.

Isobel unintentionally paused before opening the door. Remembering the look she was given by Snape last time when she came in late with rumpled clothes and hair, she paused to make sure she was decent before walking in.

The group of boys inched past her and she remembered seeing them at some Quidditch game in the past.

 _Quidditch._ The thought about it, and briefly of _him_ , flickered across her mind, of the boy she had been with just the day before. She shook her head instead, to clear it.

Isobel takes in a deep breath before walking inside. It's not that she didn't like Professor Snape, unlike a good portion of the student body—in fact, she hadn't had a problem with him as of yet. Also, this class—Potions—was the one she excelled in greatly, and Snape made sure to have made it known even though she wasn't in his house.

But as Isobel made her way down the row of desks, she couldn't shake the feeling that so many eyes were on her, and she quickened her steps. A lump appeared in her throat per usual and a slight color to her ears from a blush followed. She was grateful her hair hid them.

Her hand automatically raised to an ear on instinct and she quickly pulled it away, wincing at a bruise that was there—one of _his_ marks. Her ears burned even more.

"Late again, Miss MacDougal…?"

Her steps faltered at Snape's voice echoing the classroom. She was the last one to file inside and she froze, not knowing what to do for a second. She didn't know how to respond and she gaped like a fish before he spoke again.

"Let's hope this doesn't happen a _third_ time…?" He spun around, dark robe flowing to follow him to his desk.

Isobel's head dipped and she rushed to the her seat beside Pansy Parkinson and in a clumsy fit of rummaging in her bag, a few things spilled out on the table.

Her seat was at the front of the class and had been one against her decision, assigned by Professor Snape himself and was something she just couldn't understand _why_.

The Slytherin girl stares at Isobel from the corner of her eye as the other grabs for her parchment and quill. Isobel breaths a sigh when she takes her seat just as Snape finishes prepping for class.

Pansy shows a sly grin as Isobel rushed to writes down what was necessary before class, brows knitted in concentration. She knew that it was a matter of time until the Slytherin girl opened her mouth and unleashed bitter words no one wanted to hear, it always was.

"Is that a hickie…?!"

Isobel messed up the last letter she was writing and responds with a low "no."

Pansy's smirk grew wider. "Sure looks like one to me."

She ignores Isobel moving her hair to the side of her neck, hiding the mark from herview.

"My, my. I would never thought _you_ , the _innocent_ Isobel MacDougal, would be so... _promiscuous_ ," she laughs. Pansy did not try to keep her voice to a two-person conversation level.

Isobel doesn't even look her way and rushed to finish writing. "I'm not innocent, you know. I do have a brain and can think for myself." There was a hint of hostility in her light tone, one Pansy took notice of and wasn't too happy for.

"I'd watch my tone if I was you, you little Gryffindor. You aren't _too good_ to not have me hex you," Pansy snaps.

Isobel ignored her further, not bothering to reply and kept writing.

There was a brief silence between the two as the tension died done. Snape had left the classroom for a moment, carrying a variety of large bottles—probably to the potion room.

Pansy tried again: "Well, let me see~," she cooed. "I wanna know who was the horny bloke that gave it to you and got in your pants."

"Uhh~…" Isobel froze, eyes growing wide.

Pansy reached to brush aside Isobel's hair but her hand was smacked away.

Pansy gasped. "He didn't get in your pants, did he?" she spoke in mock surprise. She had hissed that purposely loudly to draw attention. She chuckled to herself.

"Leave her alone, Pansy," a deep voice hissed behind them.

Isobel let out a sigh of relief. Pansy, however, grew ticked.

The Slytherin turned behind to see Dean Thomas leaning forward over his own desk and in their personal bubbles, brows brought together in defense.

"No one asked you. Stay in your lane, Gryffindor," Pansy sneered. She then turned back to Isobel with a look of mock shock. "Was it him, _Dean_?"

The shared looks of shock and mild disgust from the two Gryffindors gave her answer.

The sly grin remained on Pansy's face but before she could get another word out, the dungeon class door slammed shut followed by the sound of footsteps. The class turned to watch Snape walk from the back to the front of the classroom, calling for attention at the front. Isobel quickly pulled her hair up in a ponytail and brushed it back in place to hide her bruises.

Yes, they were hickies, love marks, but it's not like she was going to let anyone know. Especially Pansy Blabber-mouth Parkinson.

That day, the class was to make a potion at assigned stations. Snape decided to not use textbooks today and students were put into pairs.

Last time, Isobel had been paired with Ron Weasley, and if it wasn't for her pulling an all-nighter before for studying, they would have produced an explosive result, or _a Finnigan result_ it was comically and popularly called.

Now minutes later and at their stations, she gave a nice grin up at Dean as he set out the necessary ingredients in front of their cauldron. The tall Gryffindor was one of the first Isobel met when she began Hogwarts. Of course, he was in a class ahead her due to her getting her letter late.

Pansy glared at Isobel from across the room and Isobel purposely didn't meet her eye, looking toward the teacher and waiting for direction.

"Today," Snape begun in his usual drawl, "you with successfully brew a perfect Laxative Potion."

"Bloody hell," Neville whispered.

Hermione's brows crinkled for a moment—they weren't supposed to learn that potions yet, she didn't think—but smiled with confidence anyhow. She could execute this just fine.

Snape's head turned in the direction of the shy brunette Neville. "Complaints…will not help you. I expect _all_ potions to be completed in no less than twelve minutes."

This earned a collected groan. Only Isobel, Hermione, and two others smiled to themselves, confident in their brewing skills. Dean didn't make a noise knowing his partner and her excellence and felt secure.

That was another thing—though Dean Thomas, as well as everyone else in Potions class here, was ahead of her by year, they were all in the same age range.

And while Hermione is known at excelling in all areas of magical academics, potions and brewing was Isobel's specialty, though she didn't dare flaunt it. Though Isobel came in an entire year later than she should, she caught on fast. One of the first to notice this was Professor Snape himself, and had requested that she be placed in an advanced class for her talent.

"Two spoonfuls of billywig sting slime," Isobel read from the textbook aloud, her finger following along under the instructions.

Dean grimaced, passing her the large spoon and doing his best not to touch the slime residue on it. She grabbed it, unfazed, and added the required amount inside the cauldron. She peered inside and watched it begin to bubble. Dean joined, leaning over the opening from the other side of the table.

"What next?" he asked, looking up from watching the cauldron.

She read the next step aloud. The collection of all the students created an ambience of clattering metal and corking bottles and boiling liquid.

This went on for some time, the students trying to brew the potion correctly and flipping through textbooks. Some were doing fine, some were nervous; there was a minor error when one cauldron fizzed over.

Isobel monitored the flame under her and Dean's cauldron and was so focussed she didn't notice her hair had moved from hiding her bruises. Dean had to do a double-take when he looked over at her from crushing porcupine quills.

He faltered. "Um…"

She turned down the fire and waved her wand over the opening of the cauldron. The tip of her wand glowed a faint purple for a moment as the potion continued brewing.

"So, uh, what's the deal with your neck?"

Isobel paused. "Pardon?"

"Uh…" Dean thought about his choice of words. "I mean, like, who gave it to you? 'Cause Pansy was right, it _does_ look pretty bad." He held his hands up in surrender when she squinted her eyes at him, irked. "I'm not trying to be mean!"

"One more minute left," Snape announced.

Isobel stared at Dean with a questioning stare and when he didn't move, snatched two crumpled ingredients from the table. Her hands went busy, cursing under her breath as she prepared and then added the amount to the brew.

"Well first off, I didn't know it was _everybody's business_. Second," she held up a finger for emphasis, still not looking up. "If you must know, apparently I'm allergic to boom berries, since someone thought it was _funny_ to add some to my lotion this weekend." She lied with a straight face. She still hadn't looked up at him.

Dean clicked his tongue. He didn't think much of it—it did sound very believable, being in the same house as the infamous trickster Weasleys.

Across the room, Harry had looked up, having overheard Dean's failed attempt to whisper. No one noticed and he listened intently for Isobel's response.

The area along the sides of her neck _was_ horrible, littered with dark bruises but the most prominent being a large nasty one close to her collar bone that was obviously a hickie.

It wasn't that far into the day and the girl was already getting heckled. But Harry released a a sly chuckle when her answer drifted to his ear. He wiped his hands on his pants when Hermione called his attention back and he turned back to their station.

Parvati had to be called for her attention too by her partner, Neville. A Slytherin boy almost elbowed a valve when he was eavesdropping too hard.

Dean studied Isobel for a second longer after her answer, not sure whether she was lying or not and whether to call her out about it. However, the narrowed arch of her brows told him to leave it be.

For the last remaining minute, the students rushed to finish at their stations, getting the right measurements, and making sure the potion worked in the last of 60 seconds.

Isobel glanced over in time to see Dean's disapproving look and before she could put the stirring spoon down and state something about what she did with her time was for her, Snape called that time was up.

The remainder of the class was spent on their professor going around to each station and testing the potion, awarding with compliments and points and insulting those who had done wrong.

Dean was almost a foot and a half taller than Isobel and she knew that he could probably see the bruise-like mark from his height. It wasn't covered that well by her hair and she played with her ponytail, purposely disrupting his view of it that she knew he was still trying to see.

When the teacher came around, she puffed out her chest, satisfaction radiating from her. Dean's hands shoved in his pockets, knowing the few points Gryffindor would receive for her, _yet again_ , well brewed concoction.

* * *

 ** _A/N: This is planned to be drama-filled with graphic bits throughout the chapters. Try to figure out Isobel's escapades._**


	2. Suggestive

_**A/N: There will also be flashbacks periodically. If there's anything specific you'd like me to show feel free to tell me.**_

 ** _[Disclaimer:_ _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]_**

* * *

The first time was—

Tense. And quite uncomfortable and rushed and foreign and graceless. But it was also euphoric and exuberant, inebriating and _hot_.

The first time they laid together, it was like they were both intoxicated, so deep in the moment, she remembers, and the memory almost always brought a slight blush to her cheeks and butterflies in her stomach. She would almost always grab at her stomach and turn, holding back her lurches because she wasn't sure she was supposed to feel this way; they never said that these feelings were going to happen, to _stay._

Back then, there had been some fumbling, awkward laughter, a little talking, cuddling—the typical things of first-timers, it was told. There was the foreign but comforting feeling of having another body so close, pressed up against yours.

The shared moment was followed by a flush across pale cheeks—that was him—and panting for breath and she remembered after the incommodious aftermath, how his skin was fair but pale enough where you could see every scar he wore with ease. Isobel remembered his small talk and her fingers tracing imaginary marks in his skin and his fingers in her curls.

Even then, she knew this would only mess her up.

 _One time in The Three Broomsticks, Isobel had seen Ginny Weasley and Dean licking each other's faces off. Across the way, she had heard Ron cursing about it._

 _She wondered if_ they _looked like that,_ if _they ever did, if they ever broke that truce._

This was going to be a disaster if rules hadn't been set, she just _knew._

The two of them—Isobel and _him_ —had created a neutral agreement, something she seemed to have to remind him of often now. That is what brought this memory to mind. It wasn't that long ago, it seemed, it felt to her. She wonders how he felt about it.

Him. The boy. She remembers how ruffled his dark hair was, the sheen of sweat glistening on both of their skin contrasting slightly in the dim light, his bright eyes that felt like they bore holes into her… Isobel remembers seeing rain patterns against the window during their first time spent, and the sound of music drifting somewhere between the walls. She remembered them shutting each other up with muffled laughter behind their hands...

The faded memories stayed in her mind for months afterwards; she could guess the same for him as well, but only guess. He never talked about it. They never spoke about it.

Isobel never had many to talk this subject to and knew that he didn't have anyone either, at least someone who cared enough. The only thing ever heard is _what_ it was and "always be prepared."

 _"There was nothing bad with showing someone how much you care," George Weasley had spoken once._

 _"Unless you have…those_ urges _. Well, then…you_ are _human, after all," Arthur had chuckled._

 _His wife, Molly, smacked him with the newspaper for speaking that way at the dinner table._

Now wide awake and alone, Isobel's eyes darted around The Great Hall. It was afternoon and the fall season was approaching rapidly, and the elves had begun bringing out the decorations. The incident in potions class of Pansy's _gracious_ outbursts had long passed weeks ago and the bruises on her neck healed, but that didn't stop the Slytherin's side glances her way.

Isobel was walking down an aisle from entering The Great Hall, gaze sweeping for the familiar face of Mandy Brocklehurst and Lavender Brown. Her pace was quick and her eyes shifted, hoping to find the two before she saw someone she didn't, or _wasn't_ prepared to see. Isobel found them quicker than expected and sitting aside a blonde at the table that would be Ravenclaw's come dinnertime.

Mandy and Lavender were her two good friends she hung around the most. Mandy is a Ravenclaw in Isobel's year whom she met one Astronomy class; and Lavender was the one Isobel chose to sit beside in potions class in the beginning, _before_ Snape assigned seats, and is the one other than Dean that Isobel conversed with.

There was a Quidditch match today, as the conversations in The Great Hall went. The talk had been going around the castle and both Gryffindor and Slytherin teams had been harassing each other for weeks. It was all going to boil over today when whichever team won, not that that rivalry was saved for _only_ the Quidditch field...

 _Good morning's_ was passed between the girls and Isobel took a seat across from Lavender and Mandy, the blonde departing to catch up with her own group. Mandy told Isobel on the missed conversation and the controversy floating around this year:

"So, you remember that guy from The Ministry that was found dead in the woods last year?" Mandy spoke before drinking from a goblet cup.

Isobel shook her head.

After going home after the ending of last year, she hadn't had any contact with the Wizard World or any news involving magical origin. This was her first time hearing about him, Bartemius Crouch Senior's death.

"Apparently someone in The Ministry must have bad blood," Mandy exaggerated a concerned tone, spooning cereal into her mouth.

Lavender nodded. "I heard his son was a Death Eater, too"

Isobel nodded listening and taking bites of french toast as the two told her of the troubles surrounding the passed Triwizard Tournaments and theories that had arose.

"And _I think_ ," Mandy continued, "it was probably done by… _You-Know-Who_."

Isobel lowered her fork. "...You _really_ believe that?" A honey brown eyebrow quirked.

Everyone knew that Cedric Diggory had been murdered by The Dark Lord, and that The Ministry continued to disregard his cause of death, refusing to believe Voldemort returned even after the death of an innocent boy. But everyone only knew of the vague details that was printed in the papers. The public only knew of what went down during The Third Task: The Maze by its survivors and Triwizard Champion. It was treated as a conspiracy, many people still putting off the truth. It was ridiculous really, something as foolish as Voldemort coming back. It wasn't possible.

…Right?

"And how much of this do you _really_ believe?" Isobel wasn't convinced.

She had long, thick curls the shade of warm caramel that tumbled to her lower back and was currently tied back by a purple bandanna headband. And it was cold outside, so she, as well as Mandy and Lavender, were dressed in warm sweaters.

Mandy sat back, an equally challenging look in her eyes. "Well, I mean _come on_. Dumbledore's been talking about _him_ ," she meant Voldemort, "for years now. Do you not remember that long speech he made that took up 'bout half of dinner last year?"

Isobel nodded. She did remember hearing the speech—of Cedric's death and the risky Tournaments that year. All the other details, such as Crouch's death, she had not. These hot topics have pretty much died down throughout the school by now, so it hadn't really been a matter to question to her.

Despite the previous news, the conversation eventually dissolved into gossip and warm breakfast and all were eager to resume to their plates. It was preferred, the mood lightening now, and Isobel would never, ever pass up waffles and french toast. She licked a drop of syrup on her knuckle as she finished her second slice of french toast. Talk of You-Know-Who always caused heads to turn and voices to hush.

Lavender made the final decision to drop the subject and turn to their warm breakfast instead.

A smirk cracked Mandy's cheeks watching Isobel bring a torn piece of waffle to her mouth. "You sure weren't kidding that you liked breakfast, huh?"

Isobel nodded, grinning with full cheeks. She washed it down with a milk. She hadn't had breakfast in three weeks and didn't know when would be the next time she would wake up this early again.

Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day. It had been ever since she was small and she and her brother would sneak sugary items before their parents awoke, and their parents would wonder why they were too full at the table in the morning.

Warm breakfast was something Isobel enjoyed the most. She enjoyed it almost as much as she liked to—-

 _"Ahh...fuck!"_

A shiver ran down her spine. It was a memory was all it was, but it was vivid one, like she could hear him moaning right in her ear. Her food dropped from her hands and she swallowed thickly, wiping her hands on a nearby napkin.

Mandy and Lavender continued on normally. Neither seemed to notice Isobel's sudden still stature.

 _Hands sliding down her torso to grab at her hips... Her legs kicked wildly but he held them down firm and successfully... She wriggled, her back lifting and a loud, shrill gasp came from her lips as she grabbed at his unruly hair._

Her stomach gave that familiar buzz and her thighs were rubbing together. She took a drink from her goblet cup, hoping to wash her food down as she found she suddenly couldn't stomach it.

"…Isobel…?"

Her head snapped up, forcing on a calm face. "Yes?"

Both Mandy and Lavender could tell the third's change but didn't know how to address it. Mandy made a weird hand gesture and Lavender just crinkled her eyebrows and nose.

"I did an all-nighter for studying last night." Well, it wasn't exactly a lie, as Isobel did have an exam today she studied for.

Both Mandy and Lavender seemed to not be completely convinced.

"What?"

Pause.

Isobel fidgeted with her fingers under the table.

"Well, you just seemed really...changed, is all."

"It's nothing," Isobel lied, smiling. She looked at her food. A crawl ran up her back and she rubbed her arm. "Do either of you feel a chill…like-like you're being watched?"

Seated across from Isobel, both girls' brows furrowed and they shook their heads.

Isobel rolled her neck. She started to feel self-conscious all of a sudden. Now, she _definitely_ felt like she was being watched, like something was up. This was a large room, The Great Hall was, so it must just be something in her head. She smiled at something Mandy said but the feeling still didn't go away.

Looking around, Isobel's eyes paused when she looked up, looking past her friends' shoulders, and realized the mistake she made as the gap in the students across The Hall allowed Isobel to see Harry staring right at her, two tables down—directly at her. She knew because his gaze was unwavering and harsh even though she could tell his mouth was moving like in conversation to those next to him.

He stared— _glared_ at her, and it wasn't wavering. Isobel swallowed.

Hermione didn't seem fazed by this, as she was busy reading The Daily Prophet beside Harry. Mandy and Lavender were facing Isobel, so both were blind to what was happening behind them.

And Harry just kept glaring.

Isobel's hand unconsciously flew to her neck in the same spot Pansy had given her an evil eye, claiming Isobel used a charm to hide her "other shameful marks."

Lavender answered Mandy's question Isobel didn't hear her ask and she couldn't tell if Harry was glaring _at_ her exactly, perhaps angry at her for what she had done and he didn't have long hair like she did, or, was he staring at her because… She didn't think too much about it; Isobel could never hold his glare for long.

There was also the possibility he was spacing out…but Isobel knew that was unlikely.

She felt a familiar stir in the pit of her stomach as her hand unconsciously slid to her collar bone where her sweater line dipped. She pushed her plate away and began to stand from the table, some memorized excuse tumbling from her lips. She suddenly felt finished with breakfast and her knees weak.

"Isobel…?" Lavender called, concerned.

"You know, I'm finished eating…" She drifted off, feeling her ears starting to burn.

Lavender began to protest, saying Isobel looked fine just a minute ago, when the girl interrupted her: "I don't feel good suddenly," Isobel spoke and then stood to leave, holding her stomach for good measure.

Neither stopped her.

Mandy looked at her friend's plate—Isobel still had quite a bit of food left, which was unusual.

As she exited The Great Hall, Isobel passed Ron Weasley donned up in the Quidditch keeper's uniform and looking rather uncomfortable. Back at the table, Mandy watched Lavender jump to her feet and run over to the redhead when he sat, and Isobel hurried out The Great Hall.

Isobel doesn't know why she rushed out and didn't mean to leave Mandy alone like that, knowing as soon as Lavender saw Ron, she would be all over him again.

Isobel chewed her lip unconsciously. She finally sighed as she rounded a corner but paused seeing a boy and girl leaned against a wall and she remembered. She recognizes that spot and remembered the day this whole charade began, when they both dove down a path they couldn't back out from.

It had been fourth year. _He_ had wanted to talk to her about _something_ , calling her out from her friends. The hallways had been almost vacant like they were now. _He_ had started talking, and somehow through it when everyone left, the conversation had diverged down a more… _licentious_ subject.

Isobel remembered him sliding his thumb across her bottom lip, commenting on how round and attracting her lips were. She remembered the look in his hooded eyes and the thick air he had invited in that split second.

She remembered the conversation he tried to keep and her, earnest, grabbing his hand and inserting his first finger in her mouth and the arousing flutter in her core that came with it as she relaxed against the wall, letting her tongue roll around his large digit. She remembered the look on his face when she glanced up at him with a look she hopped as alluring. His breath had caught then and he had bit his lip in heated lust.

She slid his finger in and out of her lips very slowly before releasing it with a slight audible _pop_. They had just stared at each other then for who knew how long, until he quickly turned and left with a hasty "good day."

Isobel blinked, the memory leaving. In it's place, she saw the Hufflepuff giggling beside the Slytherin boy. Isobel wondered if that couple had any idea what had happened in that same spot they were standing just a year ago.

The couple that were leaning against the wall now were in the same spot _he_ and Isobel were just a year ago.

Isobel groaned before turning and continuing down the long hallway. _Of course_ they wouldn't know. No one did.

No one needed to know.

 **. . . .**

Sometimes in the mornings, Isobel would find herself reminding the boy of "not yet," and he would insist and she would have to put her foot down. This dance mainly happened in the mornings between classes or when they passed each other in the evening. Either way, the hallways would usually be clear and Isobel would look up into his bright eyes, ready to repeat the same dance moves over again.

"I said no," Isobel whined, giggling.

He, this boy, would pull her closer by the waist, her squealing and giggling in his arms. He insisted, persisting that it was okay.

He was a boy who revealed he liked Isobel almost six months ago. He was someone whom she had heard of in passing, but hadn't known personally until after that secret chamber was opened that one year, some time ago. He was a boy who was kind and sweet, but every time he proclaimed his feelings for her, Isobel would shake her head, refusing him.

Just like she did now.

This would go on for some time. She would deny him and and then he would try to court her more throughout the month. He would declare his feelings for her in person or in private, neither matter. He claimed that it was more than a crush but she would always shake her head and insist it was.

She would giggle to herself. Everyone told her that he was a good fit, that he really liked her, but whenever she met up with him, she would decline him. This was a funny dance in many ways. This was a romantic dance that he didn't know he was involved in, and that there were three pieces across the board, not just two.

In the halls that late evening, he grabbed Isobel and pulled her into a hug, tickling her sides. She squealed and he wanted to kiss her. Isobel laughed, and when he thought he may have finally caught her, puckering his lips playfully, another pair of feet echoing made them stop.

One time in the late afternoon, Harry Potter had caught them.

It wasn't secret that _he_ , the boy, liked her but being seen by someone like _Harry_ was…quite _embarrassing_ to say the least.

 _He_ was tugging her at the waist, claiming that he loved her and asking why she didn't admit she reciprocated the feelings. That's when Isobel saw Harry while twisting in the other's tickling hands.

Harry paused in the hallway with a book under his arm, had stared for a minute with wide, guilty eyes.

Both had frozen too, and Isobel eventually pushed away from the other's hold.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the other boy called to Harry.

Isobel looked up at the boy beside her, wondering why his tone was so harsh. She turned back to see Harry spinning on his heels back the way he came, and Isobel broke away and hurried to the fleeing one's side. When she caught up with him, she started to talk, voice low, and he beat her with a quick and hasty, "I didn't see anything."

"That isn't the point!" She grabbed Harry's shoulder and forced him to turn around. He did but his eyes were burning and a frown on his lips. "What is wrong with you!?"

Harry turned, picking his pace back up, rounding the corner and leaving. "Nothing."

Isobel followed him, leaving the boy she had been with leaning against the wall with crossed arms. "Yes there is! And if there is, tell me so this can be settled."

Harry has been such a moody thing lately and it raised questions in Isobel who witnessed it up close.

"You know _exactly_ what is wrong. Do you want me to spell it out for you?"

Isobel drew back, keeping her stare evenly for once. His answer was met by silence.

She knew he had his problems. Everyone had their own problems, but with him accusing, glaring so intently, she wanted to back away and forget this ever happened. It wouldn't be the first time.

Isobel stared, lips parted and unable to answer with an even voce. She was unable to look away as he leaned forward and in her face.

Harry gritted his teeth. "I. Don't. Like him."

It took a minute for her to regain her composure. "And what do you have to support that statement," Isobel's voice shook.

Harry leaned back abruptly, barking a dry laugh. "You don't even love him!"

Taken aback, Isobel scowled. "And how would _you_ know that?" She paused, his words hitting her. "What makes _you_ think _you_ know better than me? What makes _your_ opinion matter on this?" Red flushed across her face, more from anger and annoyance than from being caught in a compromising position earlier.

By now, it was her who was fuming angrily.

Harry begun retreating, walking backwards. He threw his hands up in a shrug. She didn't follow after him and remained with her fists at her sides. She saw him chuckle and the blush of anger reached her ears. He was so infuriating, so bigheaded sometimes, so…so...

"You're so _irritating_!" She yelled after him.

"Yeah? And you're naive! You think you're in any position to criticize someone?!"


	3. A Little on The Side

**_[Disclaimer:_ _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing_ _]_**

* * *

" _I hate you!_ "

She stood with hands clenched and a look of murder, feet firmly planted and he thought she looked cute the way her freckles wrinkled on her nose when she was annoyed.

The girl threw herself in his arms when that smirk cracked across his face again. Her holler echoed around the empty boys bedroom after the heavy wooden door swung shut. Luckily, there was no one here but that was the only time they would meet.

She was in his arms now, legs wrapped around his waist and he stubbled when she jumped in his arms. His arms curled under her thighs, keeping her steady, and her lips graze across his neck, hot breath splashing across his pale skin and he feeling her mumble against him sent chills down his spine.

He stumbled and she soon felt her back pressing into a tall bed post.

"I hate you…" She hissed, leaving harsh kisses under his jaw. "You're so aggravating…" her fingers tangling in his messy, dark hair, smiling at hearing his jagged breathing.

This was such a rush, and there was a warm, energizing emotion that exploded in his whenever she was near, whenever she gave her touch.

"Yeah?" he asked, teasing. "Am I?" When she grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged, he groaned, "tell me more. How much do you hate me?"

His hands grip her ass and she took a short intake of breath. She nipped the area where his throat connects and leaned back to glare down at him. He was looking her in the eyes as he hoists her up higher, her fingers digging into his biceps and her stomach flips when she felt them flex. There was a snarky smirk he wore and it irked her more.

"Lots," she answered, and began leaving love bites just as harshly on him as he had left on her a few weeks ago.

She was a modest, reserved, and quite farouched girl, and he uncharacteristically smirked up at her now, at person she would become when they were together, when she would become so bold and temerarious and _dirty_ , and he smirked knowing that no one but him would know.

Her hands begin undoing his buttons, sliding his shirt off from the collar down when she swooped down to nip a his lip.

She is wrapped around him and the two bodies are a flurry of arms and harsh kisses. Eventually, he stumbled over to his side of the room.

There were kisses, gasps, and touches, and it wasn't long until Isobel was laid out bare on the red bed covers.

He started at her jugular, trailing fierce kisses down her throat to the valley between her breasts, and making her back arch and stomach flutter and core ache. Isobel could feel her face burning, herself blushing, but not that she hadn't been already. She watched with her knuckle between her teeth as his mop of dark hair lowered so slowly. Inch by inch, his kisses trail down, her breath hitching higher with each kiss and mark left lower and lower.

Isobel groaned, legs squeezing together and he eats it up, loving it. She watched him lower to her naval, nip at her hipbone, and settling himself in between her thighs after spreading them apart. Her breath caught in her throat and her head fell back to the pillow, panting from exhilaration. When she looked back down again, cheeks a lush pink, she caught his viridian eyes flicker in her direction.

With each kiss he left, accompanied by a pretty red mark, he heard her breathing raise higher and higher, and he grinned devilishly.

She is bare before him and his hand slide over a small love bite on her hip before cupping the cheeks of her ass.

Isobel watched him slither down and in her mind she simultaneously wishes him on while cursing him to stop. She squirmed, heart racing, and she can feel her face _burning_ when his arms hook under her thighs and she dreads, yet, is excited for what he is to do next.

She says his name, it coming out more as plea than she meant.

This boy, with the dark, raven hair glanced up at her reddened face before slithering down the final inch and making her cry out.

Isobel writhed on the bed but doesn't move much under his hold. Her body raised from the bed and tears brim in her eyes and she screams. She could feel his sharp jaw between her thighs as he mumbles, voice so full of ego, and asks her:

"How much do you hate me again?"

She doesn't answer except for an incoherent grunt like he expected, and felt her hands tangle in his hair and give a deserving pull.

Isobel knew she would feel the ghost of that jaw hours after this was all over.

 **. . . .**

The next time Isobel went to potions class, she just couldn't sit still.

She had gotten to class on time, a feat from her past four tardies of her own laziness. But today, she was on time for once.

She arrived alongside Hermione Granger who was arguing with Weasley again, and Isobel took her assigned seat at the front of class, wondering yet again why only _she_ had one.

She wore a smile and turned it to Dean Thomas who slowed his footsteps when catching it as he entered and greeted that her non-tardy today was "a pleasant surprise."

She was even earlier than Pansy, who said good morning with a frown and eye roll then proceeded to pull out her chair and plop down, giving her back to the Gryffindors chatting beside her.

Dean and Isobel giggled, waiting for class to fill in. And Seamus, who sat beside Dean today, snapped a comment that earned a snarl from the Slytherin girl.

"What's with you today, Parkinson? Did a flobberworm crawl up your arse this mornin' or somethin'?" he chuckled. His tie was done wrongly again and small, as usual.

"Shut it, you bucktoothed git!" Pansy hissed. Her dark hair was done up in a ponytail today and it lashed like a bullwhip when her head turned. "I don't associate with _your_ kind."

"Oh Yeah? And what kind is that?" Seamus egged on, reading for a fight.

Dean eased at his side, inwardly sighing, and Isobel watched nervously—she was directly in the crossfire. She stammered, wanting to break the tension and Dean spoke up, beating her to it.

He was the one who stopped Seamus. And turning, in a harsh tone directed at the Slytherin: "just turn around, Pansy. No one was talking to you in the first place before _you_ starting looking at _us_ cross-eyed."

This time, Pansy glared. Her gum popped loudly.

Isobel saw her eyes dart past the boys, no doubly looking toward Draco and his crew. She didn't think Dean or Seamus noticed and didn't say anything. Draco didn't either.

"You won't _offend_ me, you dirty halfbloods," she spat. "Especially with a face resembling a _monkey_ , like that," she pointed at Dean and earned an enraged look. Pansy glanced at Isobel. "You better get your boy toys."

At the same time, Seamus barked: "hey! Don't confuse us with _your_ _mum_ just because she's such a pathetic, _ugly_ witch!"

Pansy whipped back around with her wand out.

Isobel gripped her chair worriedly.

And that is when Snape called for attention.

The desk had filled in around them and neither had noticed.

Near the front on the other end of the room, Ron had watched with his usual arched brows.

Today they weren't going to be brewing potions, the professor told them, but learning about Essence of Insanity, a potion not brewed by many. Hermione immediately raised her hand, remembering reading about it once. Isobel also remembered the potion but kept silent and hands to the desk.

Snape ignored Hermione's hand. "Can anyone give any _slight jab_ on what they think its purpose is?" His deep voice spoke the question but it was obviously not an honest one searching for answers.

Hermione's hand lingered in the air as expected, along with a few others scattered across the classroom who hesitantly rose.

Pansy looked over her shoulder.

Hermione caught Draco's stare out of the corner of her vision and rolled her eyes. Draco smirked and Pansy frowned, catching all of it.

Snape's robes reached to his shoes and flowed when he turned from his pacing at the front of the room. His dark eyes scanned over the students. Ron and Neville and Lee stared intently at their open textbooks, praying they wouldn't be called.

Isobel, also looking down and dreading, saw Snape's feet stop in front of her desk and slowly looked up, hazel eyes wide.

"Miss MacDougal…?" Snape stared down at her.

The rest of the request was unnecessary and Isobel already knew.

She looked back at her desk. "It's because—-"

"Stand _up_ , Miss MacDougal. And raise…your voice," Snape's tone boomed.

She held in a sigh and did as she was told. Her chair sounded loud in the quiet classroom, screeching across the stone. "It's because it causes irrational behavior, similar to insanity itself," she recited from a passage in her textbook, from memory, her voice tremoring slightly from nervously. "It's dangerous because...since it causes the drinker to not be in the right frame of mind, it's not unlikely that they can harm...or even kill under the influence of the potion. You aren't really in the right frame of mind at all under this potion…and…that's why..."

"Correct." Snape began his pacing again and Isobel plopped back down. "Now take notice… Miss MacDougal might be the _only_ _one_ who passes this course this year."

"Well that's not fair," Hermione sighed, mumbling under her breath.

Eyes immediately turned to her.

Her ears blazed red under her hair, regretting it.

"What was that Miss Granger?"

"Nothing sir," she rolled her eyes.

Isobel turned from looking behind at the Gryffindor to back to Snape, catching his stare before he looked back out at the classroom. He ordered to get out a piece of parchment and a quill and that there now was going to be a quick quiz on high level potions.

There were collected muffled groans across but were quickly hushed. The professor strode back to his desk where he charmed the stack of papers to pass themselves out.

The tests were all the same questions but were charmed to be unreadable to all except the student given and to Snape himself. There were 41 questions total, starting from the front of the page and ending on the back.

The looks of disappointment were immediate.

Each question was of potions either covered briefly or were ones they've never brew themselves. If someone had read all the books of potions, then _maybe_ they would have been able to breeze through the test, but all the students have read was textbook. Unless you're like Hermione, of course.

The bright witch hesitated at a few questions in the middle, trying to recall any additional information she's read about poisonous potions and resulted to guessing for most of the answers.

Isobel squinted, tickling her cheek with the end of her feather in thought. Pansy stared down at her page, spacing out.

Snape sat with hands folded at his desk and watched for cheaters. He slammed his desk once when catching Draco and Pansy separately trying to peer at their neighbor's answers. The professor earned a few nasty looks too, but other than that, the room wasn't filled with nauseating chatter.

Harry scratched his head in frustration, Ron was chewing his thumbnail nervously, and Parvati held her head in her hands.

This test was one unable to complete without guessing and it brought an upward curl to Snape's lips when he announced time was up, seeing most tests turned over and completed.

In the back, a student was having a nervous breakdown. Isobel turned, hearing rapid breathing and jumped at a slam on her desk.

"Stay seated forward," Snape ordered, currently charming all the tests back onto his desk.

He had levitated and dropped her books on her desk, causing the desk rattling slam, and Isobel frowned at her teacher.

Somewhere behind, Ron muttered under his breath. "What kind of bloody test was that?"

"One that will count as thirty-six percent of your grade, here, Mister Weasley," Snape answered.

Ron couldn't really whisper, everyone in Gryffindor knew that.

Then, as Snape flipped through each tests, he mumbled loudly for them to hear, "pity. I hoped it would have taken far longer."

He was referring to the test, which Miss Granger sat with her chest out about, hoping her guessing had played out in her favor.

The man looked over his class once more and turned to the papers on his desk. He waved his wand at his quill, turning the ink red, and began grading. It was twenty-two minutes filled with worried whispers when someone finally spoke.

"Sir," Isobel raised her hand, "what are we going to do now?"

It was highly unlikely to have extra time like this in potions class and this set the students uneasy with hushed voices.

"No talking," was the answer.

Miles Bletchley responded next. "I need to use the bathroom."

"I will hex the next person into oblivion who opens their mouth next!"

It was crazy but everyone sat straighter in their seats, knowing it true. Their professor didn't look up again and the following long, agonizing minutes were filled with muffled chatter among classmates.

Isobel swiddled her fingers, Pansy picked at something in her teeth, Seamus and Dean wrote notes pictures to each other on parchment.

This was usual in Snape's classroom. If they weren't standing over boiling cauldrons, they were learning all the things he promised their first year. They've learned about making potions that affected your physical features into charming others, how to make others fawn over you gloriously, and even how to give yourself another life, so to say. This was the first time they've taken a tests as ridiculous as this, however.

The room hushed once more when Snape stood, dark eyes falling on a few students in particular. The noise of him tapping the stack against his desk echoed. And everyone watched his robe sway as he approached. Snape made it known who passed and who didn't as he handed the red-marked pages back.

"Mister Goyle—actually _pay_ _attention_ next time.

"Miss Brown—read the questions _carefully and clearly_.

"Maybe next time, Potter."

Clutching the paper, Harry waited until Snape's back was turned and swung his hand in a suggestive gesture to backhand the man.

"Bletchley—not your best work.

"Jordan… Patil… Dunbar… Zabini…"

"Parkinson—I'm very surprised," which he said to a few others, probably meaning they didn't _completely_ fail.

"Close, but not close enough, Miss Granger," to which Hermione sighed in frustration.

Once all were given back, Pansy looked over at Isobel's empty desk and made a haughty grin at the other, taking it Isobel was to get the worst remark and grade that Snape was saving for last. She muttered this to the Gryffindor with the smirk displayed.

Snape turned, speaking from the back of the room. "It seems as if Miss MacDougal was the only one who passed this pop quiz…with only nine incorrect…" He looked around with a sense of pride at the jaws that dropped. "Maybe you all should learn a thing or two from your peers…" he added with mock concern.

Isobel could feel the eyes on her and slumped.

Pansy was staring, her smirk vanished. Dean and Seamus were the same, the former cracking a smile at the younger year.

Snape walked back to the front of the room, standing with arms folded and peered down at the young Gryffindor. Since there was still much time left for class, he asked for her help in demonstrating the making of the potion mentioned before, the Essence of Insantiy, of course, asking Isobel first.

She stammered an acceptance but she feared—she never performed an advanced potion in from of _peers_ before and feared that something would go horribly, horribly wrong. She glanced at her professor, hoping he would take her worried look as a hint, but he kept his eyes forward.

Whispers spread that Isobel was picked only for her high grade.

It was true, though.

Snape announced the select two were to be making a demonstration of the Essence of Insanity potion, and that he was going to pick someone with one of the lowest grade to go against Isobel.

Isobel stood beside her professor with her head down and ears burning. She stroked her hair as a feeble reassuring mechanic. Frantic questions of why he put her out like this ran through her mind.

The man's eyes scanned the room, once settling on Neville and then Vincent—either one would be amusing to see fumble and fail.

Silence lingered and his eyes swept across all those who avoided his glare.

"Potter," he called out finally, and the boy's head snapped forward. The professor ordered him to the front.

He hesitated first. Harry merely frowned, his motions angry as he stood and stomped to stand beside Isobel, purposely not meeting either's eyes. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

She was right in between both and felt the tension that spiked; her blush grew.

In the crowd, Draco and Blaise sneered. Hermione and Ron looked on, worried.

A cauldron was set out on the table between them, along with absurd ingredients like _snake fangs_ and _wormwood_ placed beside them.

"Essence of Insanity is _not_ an easy brew, hence why _very_ _few_ have ever been reported to complete it _successfully_."

" _Successfully_ ," Isobel scoffed to her shoes, but low enough that the professor hadn't heard.

Harry had, and stuffed his hands in his robe pockets, averting his gaze.

Snape ordered the class to watch carefully as he began the time for the two students to begin brewing. "You have ten minutes."

Isobel was the one who darted forward first, hands a rush as she ground ailhotsy leaves and lovage leaves with a mortar and pestle and tossed a portion of it into the bubbling cauldron. Harry had been reaching for the bottle of reem's blood right as Snape called time had started—Isobel snatched it first—and he marveled at her speed.

"Get moving, _Potter_ ," Snape spat.

The boy fumbled for a moment and Isobel glanced up, smirking.

He grabbed a handful of large mushrooms and a knife.

"Don't lose a finger," she teased as he began slicing the stalks of exploding mushrooms.

The boy glared back. She was growing cocky now.

Isobel completed creating a mixture from the root paste and the remaining amount of the powered leaves, and began stuffing it into brightly colored flowers, which she had to and go around the table to get from beside Harry. She passed the stuffed flowers off to Harry to tie shut with the cut stalks.

Isobel tried not to think of how close they were to each other and in an effort to distract herself, began soaking sneezewort petals in rem's blood. Harry dropped each tied flower into the cauldron as he finished, watching the water beginning to froth.

Students rose a little from their seats, watching the hands of the two at the front. Isobel's flew and Snape watched from beside his desk chair, arms folded under his robes and frown prominent.

Five minutes down, and Isobel waved her wand over the cauldron and watched it turn a light peach color before settling to a pretty lavender. A nervous grin grew on her face—she was doing it!

Harry handed her the container of snake fangs and read aloud their remaining instructions. He had taken it that reading would be his job since every ingredient he reached for, she snatched first. And when he had readied his wand to wave over the top, to do what she had just done, she had slapped his wrist away.

Both missed Snape's very faint chuckle at the action.

Looking up from the cauldron, Isobel grinned, watching Harry finishing dropping the mushroom tops in and reading aloud. He glanced inside and she caught something dark under his collar. A small smile split across sheer face.

"Nice bruise there, Potter. But you probably don't want McGonagall to see it."

It was said in a low chuckle which made the boy hurry and pull his collar higher. But Isobel had already seen it, the blue bruise under his collar bone and near his shoulder. There was another one at the back corner of his jaw near his ear if you looked hard enough, and she wouldn't be surprised it there was more under his shirt. She giggled watching Harry fumble and prepared the last of the potion with mumbles under his breath and ears turning a pink hue.

An explosion went off and colorful smoke rose from the cauldron. Isobel looked over her shoulder, hoping her teacher would come and help.

"Four minutes remaining," was the aid he sent.

They finished on time though, but barely. And just as Harry finished stirring in a final figure 8 motion, both brewers raised their hands as time was called.

The class gaped in amazement, remaining quiet as the professor tested the potion.

Snape glared at both brewers.

Hesitated to pour a small corked bottle, declaring it complete and perfected, bitterly congratulating the two.

Isobel bit the inside of her cheek, holding in a growing smile. Harry shuffled back to his seat.

Potions class ended soon after. Dean and Seamus were the first to congratulate her success and Pansy quickly left to be at Draco's side. Seamus admitted he thought Isobel would be the one to blow up the room and Isobel smiled a thanks.

Class ended and the students were eager to leave. Bags were packing and chairs were pushed back under the desks. It was a big rush at the beginning wave of students streaming out the door. Isobel stood at the edge of the waning crowd of students and slug her bag over her shoulder, congratulations still circulating. Some time through it all, she had felt a hand slide to her backside, making her words catch in her throat and heart speed up in nervousness. It was gone when Snape's voice boomed above the chatter and called her to his desk.

She didn't catch whose hand it had been, but she knew. She had already known.

As the stragglers were left behind in the mostly empty room, Snape told Isobel to outstretch her hand and he placed the small bottle in her palm. It was big enough go on a necklace with a slightly glowing purple liquid inside and Isobel wondered why he had given it to her and not Harry, who had finished the potion. But she knew better than to question, and nodded her thanks and left with a wave from his hand.

Besides, it's not like Harry would want something like this.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I really wanted to post something and I'm hoping to make this story good. I'm up for criticism and please tell me if you don't like something or I didn't do something right again. I'll go change it. How was this chapter?_**


	4. Cherry (First-time)

**_A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. This is part one of the chapter since I split it. It would have been too long to publish together._**

 ** _[Disclaimer:_ _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing_ _]_**

* * *

Isobel gave her virginity in third year.

It had been on a day of snow, the chill of winter had already came, and it wasn't hard to sneak past administrators with two additional guests schools here to pay attention to.

They met up sometime between evening and one in the morning, Isobel couldn't remember exactly when. And to tell the truth, she couldn't remember exactly how it all begun that night. She knew that there had been tension between the two of them after that confrontation earlier in the year outside and near The Great Hall.

 _She had been leaned against the wall after he called her from her friends_ —

And tension was certainly still there when they had kissed first— _that_ had been very intimate. But their first time—before they had made this agreement—their first time wasn't like she had pictured it to be.

He had a nervous twitch in his right brow and swallowed nervously too much, and her insides did twists she didn't know how to stop.

She remembers hearing her older brother talk about things like this, mainly of the experience of others and his friends—the stories all came from his friends. She has heard the horror stories and misconceptions there were about it, but that was years ago now. Besides the point, still it all was different in first person.

Their first time, there had been much fumbling, giggling, and awkward hesitation and confusion. His hands hovered, unsure, like he had never been touched before, and her smile was shy. Their strokes had been heated and words tumbling from their lips in a rush and stammer.

It was _no way_ gracious and _smooth_ and _pale incarnadine_ like in muggle movies.

It had been lightly snowing, Isobel remembered, and she thinks they were skipping class that day... It was on the seventh floor somewhere, somewhere he had said no one goes to anymore, not since sometime after his second year. The tall window on the far side of the room helped reflect the moon across the room.

His chest was soft and his hands wide and timid like he was afraid to be touched.

Before it had all started, they had stood in front of each other, unsure exactly of how all the little things went and she always looked away sheepishly from his eyes. She had suddenly became shy of it all and embarrassed and nervous.

Her words tumbled from her lips in a stutter, an effect from his intense eyes until his hand cupped her chin and she felt his thumb slide across her lip again. It was a move he found silenced her.

Isobel paused before looking up at him and when she did, there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. He leant down to close the short gap between them, and she remembered his lips were warm and bruised.

He had admitted someway into the kiss that he didn't exactly know how to start this either.

"This is just fine," she had whispered against his lips, saying to just keep doing this. "I don't entirely either."

He had paused to pull back to turn his burning eyes to her, seeming shocked. At least, that's what it felt like—his eyes always felt like they were burning her alive. And she could understand his wide-eyed look—she was the one who was insinuating all this time.

He looked at her shocked, guessing her extensive knowledge had fooled him, and she had stared back for once, caught off guard feeling his hand grasp her hip tightly and suddenly. And when he brought his lips back to hers, he only hesitated for a moment this time.

His hands slid across her waist under her shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief at the feeling of them pushing her shirt up as they rose and figured this won't be too bad and that they'd feel their way through it all. She guessed that sigh had been something he liked, since he had taken that opportunity to slither his tongue past her plump lips.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, later dropping to undo his shirt buttons,, and she hoped her hair wasn't getting in the way when she felt him pull their bodies closer.

She did have to stop him once though, his lips becoming too eager and a bit sloppy and she corrected him.

The body heat became unbearable and heavy pants were coming from both of them but each touch sent electricity through their bodies, and each sound and breath sent shockwaves. Isobel gasped when the kiss broke for a moment to him whispering dirty things to her, moving to her neck.

Oh, how she loved this.

There was no denying there was some awkwardness, some fumbling—like when he struggled with her bra or she with his fastenings.

The room had been dark except for the light outside. The experience didn't exactly add up to the elaborate stories her brother's friends shared. There was indeed some giggling and clumsy, shaky fingers and lips like they described, but that is where the similarities ended. And when they both laid together in the minutes that followed, that's when she realized just how real all this was.

The snow fell against the window glass, reflecting in the room. The light outside illuminated sweating skin and her chest rose, scraping his aloft hers.

And when they laid together, there was a hesitant look in her eyes when he looked down at her, a virescent, wide-eyed inquire for permission. She raised her lips to his for one the last time. He settled between her legs, one bent at the knee at his side and his breath was shaky.

There was no going back now, and she reminded herself that she was doing this for her.

She wanted this, she was very sure.

She gave a quick nod.

This experience wasn't exactly how she had imagined it and one of the things that bothered her most was how cold the room was.

There was pain and discomfort but only slight and for a short while. His hands roamed and hers clamped secure. His lips quivered against her and she twined their fingers together, small sounds flowing from her when he moved just right.

Now, not all of it was as sweet as they make it seem in the movies and books—they did bump awkwardly and sometimes there were acts done too rough or not enough. And to be honest, it took her a while to feel pleasure down there—opposed his open mouth gasp and shiver when they first connected.

He was unsure of where to touch and she told him what felt good, what to do first, and he soon didn't need guidance. The feeling of his fingers and then hips— _their_ hips grinding against each other was a wonderful feeling that sent a sort of giddy gaiety to the pit in her stomach.

She didn't know how long they were joined, but by the end both were a deep flushed red and could see their breaths in the air. By the time it ended, there was a sort of rush and she had wailed, squeezing him closer—they had both called out, actually.

Her fingertips left evidence, she remembered him telling her the next morning. But oh, how'd he love to have her thighs around him again, to hear her moan his name in his ear again. Her cheeks had burned when he whispered this, and from then on she felt flustered whenever he was near. And after establishing boundaries once finally meeting alone in the halls, with one last kiss, all this began.

That had been over a year ago.

Now, however, she was in a different predicament. With her hair messy and held back in a ponytail, Isobel was sweating but not in the way she would have preferred. She grimaced, peering into the bubbling cauldron in front of her. It emitted an overpowering sour smell that made her gag.

"Keep stirring...!"

She did as she was instructed.

"Did you put in four amounts of the crushed porcupine quills, as instructed?"

"Yes sir," she gripped her throat.

"Good. Time is running out. And unless you want a bubbling, smelly mess to clean up all over the classroom, add six slugs quickly and wave your wand as I showed you."

"Yes sir." Isobel wanted to gag at the smell but instead covered her mouth with her sleeve and dropped the slugs in the concoction. She felt her lunch coming up her as she waved her wand.

Now was an elective period for her, so in her free time she had been called back to her potions instructor's classroom for an extra lesson he "was able to squeeze in today," as he always claimed. This was why Isobel was able to take an advanced potions class—if it weren't for Snape spotting her talent, she would have never been mentioned in a meeting with the Headmaster and staff, and she would have definitely not have been able to take an advance placement test, nor pass it if it wasn't for his subtle encouragement.

To Isobel, she didn't see anything different from herself than when she watched others—some were slower, yes, and clumsier, but there was something Snape told her to watch out for that she has yet to pinpoint and see. But she didn't question it anymore—in the beginning, she did, _a lot_. Like why he would pick to tutor a Gryffindor so intently over a Slytherin.

"I know the smell is horrid, but it'll be over if you do this right. Twenty more seconds," he warned. "Now add two doses from that shaker beside you."

Isobel quickly sprinkled the red dust into her cauldron, and with a small poof, it started emitted a very sweet scent. She lowered her arms and sat there, astonished. She'd done it. She's never done anything like this before, but she'd done it!

"Congratulations," Snape drawled, coming to stand and look over her shoulder.

The potion was clear with a slight pink hue.

"You successfully brewed a Noxious Potion…after the _third_ time… Not many your age can say they've done the same."

Isobel wiped her forehead. It was hot sitting over a burning cauldron for an hour, but she had done it. She finally completed it.

Isobel remained still, relishing in her accomplishment and once it was over, she began organizing and putting away the ingredients in her messy workspace. Her professor had gone back to his desk and she could hear him shuffling around for something. He suddenly paused.

Snape had watched the girl peer inside her cauldron, amazed, and then the bright smile that appeared in her triumph.

Isobel rubbed an eye with her shirt and yawned.

This obviously took more out of her than expected and she was in need of a shower but he couldn't let himself go soft over her, Snape caught himself. It was his responsibility to teach her, after all.

But the Gryffindor became jubilant and smiling as usual but with a new air to her which he could never full figure out—she was proud, yes, but there was something else there.

Isobel gathered the residue that spilled on the table and wiped at her cheek, unknowingly wiping a streak of white powder across her face.

She looked up, wide-eyed when Snape stopped her with a wrap of his wand to her wrist, telling her that he would pick up and to hurry back to her quarters before something _unfortunate_ happened. He said the last part with a raised eyebrow.

He always spoke cryptic like that as if she was supposed to know what he meant. _What could happen?_ The worst is that she be stopped and asked why she wasn't in her elective class, and having to tell them she had a free period this hour.

"Yes Professor," she thanked, grabbing her bag.

She made a show of nursing her wrist and Snape made sure she didn't forget anything. He watched the classroom door close behind her and listened as her steps echoed down the dungeon hallway.

As soon as the dungeon classroom closed, Isobel raised a hand to her mouth to hold in her giggles, still overcome with joy at her accomplishment. It was a sweet feeling of pride that she hoped she could bring again when she, hopefully, accomplishes her next charm or potion. She couldn't wait to tell her older brother. She was so excited she even giggled to herself a little and wouldn't care of the glances she would have received.

This happened when she entered the Gryffindor common room and it was Hermione that had heard her giggling, who was studying at a desk. The brunette merely raised a brow, watching the girl bound up the stairs to the girls' quarters.

Hermione slightly shook her head and tried to get back to focusing again, and sighed, wishing she had medicine for her headache.

Hermione didn't talk to the other girl much—never had, really—but there was just _something odd_ about her that Hermione didn't like. It was just a certain _vibe_ she got from the other brunette is what it was.

At first it was jealousy she thought at the way Harry would so quickly run after Isobel's heels and smile so goofily in the past. Maybe it was the way Isobel had been such a shy shrew in their early years and now looking at her…she _wasn't_.

Either way, it was none of her business, Hermione reminded herself, no matter how suspicious she was becoming of the other, of how late Isobel would come in with clothes rumpled like she didn't care.

It was none of _her_ business.

Until her eyes trailed to a bright piece of cloth under the couch that looked like it was lace...

Hermione placed her quill down, and her eyes bugged.

 **. . . .**

Isobel inattentively watched the warm water rain down into her cupped hands.

Her shed clothes hung on a pipe and she sighed in content under the water. A shower was just what she needed after that extra potions lesson and she could practically feel all the fumes and powder and residue washing off her.

Isobel stepped back and tilted her head up, letting the water rinse her scalp and feeling it slide down her form to swirl around her feet and down the drain. This was another thing she loved—she relished in the feeling of the grime and sweat and worries and stress practically wash away. She loved the quiet and privacy the showers in the Gryffindor bathrooms brought too.

Isobel ran a hand through her hair, tossing it to her left side. Her curls were tangled together and her hair was growing in weight from the shower water.

She had dropped off her class supplies in her bedroom and quickly grabbed her things and went up to the girls' bathroom.

She dropped her head, closing her eyes, and feeling her hair straighten to reach past her pantyline.

Though she was _so_ thankful for the extra help she received—and that she was allowed to _take_ a class ahead the one she was supposed—she couldn't help but feel a little resentment toward her brother.

Her brother, older to be exact, was a fellow foster kid and unlike her, a Slytherin. He is known to have a permanent scowl and broody attitude. He was stingy, lamppost tall, taciturned, guarded, and and you knew he wouldn't have a problem using dark magic. But to Isobel, he was the shielding brother she had grown up with who told off bullies, sang happy birthday and read bedtime stories in animated voices; he had been there when no one else was.

But he had terrible trust issues and didn't allow Isobel to receive her Hogwarts letter for a full year. While she did love her brother very much—he was the only family she had until they were both adopted—Isobel still held an amount of resentment toward him for destroying her letter and then finding out he has been lying to her, not revealing they were magic until they were collected by wizard authority. Isobel could still remember the look on her then-fifteen year old brother, and it wasn't one she wished to see again.

It was her brother's fault she wasn't in the year she was supposed to be, but because of it, she was able to be recognized and excel so much, and that was something she couldn't get angry about, even if it made some complications.

Isobel wiped the condensation on the glass to glance outside the shower to see if anyone had come in. Seeing the bathroom was still empty, she began washing herself, humming a tune. She was always embarrassed to be caught singing any kind and was why she always checked before she did.

She rubbed her hands together to lather and applied the muggle shampoo to her hair, feeling the agent work its magic to and deeply inhaled the clean scent.

Elsewhere in the bathroom, a stain glass picture of a unicorn pranced and raised its head. Its mane flowed in the light as the sun was lowering in the sky.

 _"Mom used to sing to us when we were little, you know,"_ her brother had told her once upon a time, perhaps when she was really small.

For years, he was the only person who had any memory of their birth parents, was who she could ask, even if he wouldn't answer some of them. For years, Isobel took his words as fact that neither of them were alive still and he would never answer questions like "what kind of person were they?" He would become angry and always somehow changed the subject, until she started Hogwarts. And it was her second year that she found out that her brother had been lying to her that there was no one else in the world who had known their parents. Because that year, the year before she was offered to take advanced potion classes, Snape had told her that he had known their mother. To a then-thirteen year old orphan who had just found someone who had personally been with her mother, Isobel took every opportunity she had to ask questions, never thinking twice about them. It had started one day when Snape allowed her to stay after class to retake a quiz. Her hazel eyes had shone with such hope that day that she didn't care about the regretful tone in her professor's voice as she fired question after question.

 _"You look extremely like her," he revealed sometime in her fifth year. "Almost terrifyingly so… Except for your hair, of course. I recall hers being more wispy and blonde."_

 _"What was she like?" Isobel asked on a different occasion, back in her third year._

 _This earned a hard look and long pause from the professor, so much so she became unnerved. Was it a question she should have not asked? Was that why her brother always avoided the question all those years?_

 _Snape looked to be pondering before answering slowly. "Your mother was…very…unique…and had a distinct nature."_

 _The then-third year fifteen year old had kept silent, feeling this was somehow a touchy subject._

 _"She was very distinct when she walked in the room. …Like royalty...she held herself highly that one would dare defy her... …She was a very exquisite individual also, I must admit…"_

Once, Isobel had made the mistake to ask if he thought her mother was still alive since her brother never gave a truthful answer. She could swear she saw a flicker of fear flash across Snape's features before he too avoided the question but more harshly.

That is how she got her answers: by staying after class.

This had been going on ever since she was placed a year ahead in potions. Isobel would stay after for extra charms and brewing lessons and she could have all her questions answered. She didn't mind it though—it was a win-win for her—and she was able to cross off many unanswered mysteries from her list. This stopped however, in her fifth year where he limited her questions. Now, it was three she was allowed to ask each extra lesson. Isobel turned to writing the ones unanswered down for next time and Snape always rolled his eyes when she pulled out the piece of paper.

Isobel raised her face to the shower head, letting the water hit her face and wash the shampoo from her hair. She poured another handful of shampoo in her hands and lathered the length of her long hair.

Her mother wasn't a witch, but not exactly a muggle either, as Snape told. But then again, she was from some other land with magic and nowhere near muggles. That was what Isobel had found out today.

In the Gryffindor bathroom, Isobel brushed out the tangles in her hair, sighed, and rinsed. She messaged her temples, suddenly feeling wound up, jumping when the bathroom door slammed open. She froze, listening to the voice of several girls enter and make their way to the far side where the bath was. They were barefoot, she could hear, and for a second feared that they could see her, forgetting for a second that the glass was fogged.

A splash sounded to the far side followed by more chatter.

Isobel focused back on her shower and hurried to finish. She wasn't trying to listen to their conversation, but the bathrooms echo and the girls voices weren't low.

Isobel washed her hair and hummed in a lower volume. She busied her mind with miscellaneous thoughts about her friends and homework to do, but she still overheard the gossip about other houses and one's girls crush on a Slytherin boy and worrying about it. The girl revealed her thoughts about him and how much she fancied his hair especially, and didn't know why.

Isobel washed inside her ears, purposely trying to block out the erotic chatter. When she finished rinsing her hair, she overheard the girl telling how she daydreamed of how his hair would look wet.

These girls were very social and vocal about it, Isobel noticed, and unlike herself.

Fantasies were shared and as the talking continued, intensified, Isobel found herself thinking about her own, the familiar fluttering in her stomach returning.

"Just imagine it, how'd he look under shower water. He's on the Quidditch team so you know he's got those back muscles too!" one of them whooped.

Isobel bit her lip. She too was imagining it. Of _him_ of her own fantasy, with dark hair sticking to his forehead and water rolling down his broad shoulders. She shook her head, thinking that she was crazy.

She swallowed thickly. _'Why,'_ she groaned to herself, scrubbing her arms with soap. Her sponge traveled to her stomach and chest. She didn't want to listen, didn't try to, and to have her imagination start up again.

"You must really like him," one of the girls in the large tub commented. "You've got all break to have him mess with those knockers of yours!"

Someone squealed and there were splashes.

Isobel knew _him_ of her fantasy all too well, and she knew his habits by now, his traits, his quirks, what made his engine rev and what made him purr. She knew how he'd look under a shower, that she'd feel his lips on her from behind before his hands held her hips. She'd practically memorized the contours of his firm torso and robust forearms. He'd speak things in her ear that would get her aroused and he'd slide his hand up to her breasts and fondle just as she was doing now.

Isobel bit her lip.

She could already imagine his fingers traveling lower as he spoke in her ear, traveling until reaching her stomach and then slipping between her thighs.

Isobel nibbled her bottom lip.

Her fingers were shorter so they didn't produce as much pleasure but the thought was satisfying enough. She moaned faintly around her lip between her teeth and wished he was there with her, bright eyes baring down at her and finger-fucking her into the tile.

Before she knew it she was on the tile, fingers buried inside her, when a loud splash outside brought her back abruptly.

The group of girls were toweling dry and leaving and Isobel's heart was racing on the shower floor.

She frowned. She couldn't feel embarrassed because, luckily no one had seen her dirty deed, but she wasn't very fond of her act. After catching her breath, she finished bathing rather quickly. The girls were gone when she stepped out the shower.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I finished my other HP short story, so I should be able to focus on this_** ** _one now. Don't forget to send a review. I love hearing your thoughts and criticism about this story. I keep saying it but it's true. Like how was this chapter? What are your thoughts about Snape helping Isobel excel in the class? What do you want to happen with Hermione?_**


	5. Misbehavior

**_A/N: this is the second part of the chapter. I was busy so I wasn't able to post it until now._**

 ** _[Disclaimer:_ _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing_ _]_**

* * *

Isobel ascended the stairs from the girls bathroom back to the Gryffindor tower, towling her hair dry and as she approached the door to the common room, she could hear suspicious murmuring from inside. Isobel slowed, finished drying her hair as she opened the door. She suddenly had a bad feeling as she stood at the door, listening to the muffled babbling through the thick wood.

She took a breath before pushing the door open and accidentally smacking a girl in the back. The whispers didn't dissipate as she entered, and as she removed the hair tie from her wrist, asked, "what's going on?"

The blonde she bumped explained as Isobel put up her hair in a ponytail.

The whole house wasn't there due to either being in bed our elsewhere in the castle but there was still a good number inside. The chatter seemed to all be directed at one point on a wall as a small crowd had gathered near the wall. Isobel pushed past a tall someone to see what so many were focused on and saw Hermione Granger. The brunette had her hands on her hips and was speaking brashly to a boy in a chair. When she saw Isobel, her hand darted out and she pulled her out of line of students.

Isobel has never spoken with the girl before—she has once or twice, but it was only in passing or briefly—so this was _certainly_ unexpected.

As well as the question she asked her next.

"Isobel," Hermione pointed to the wall, "do you know who's knickers those are?"

Immediately the girl's heart stopped; she just hoped her face didn't give away her horror.

Hovering by some charm up on the wall and on display for all of Gryffindor was a pair of girls underwear. It had a little bow on the front and lace trim and was definitely part of the collection Isobel had received two Christmases ago. She couldn't remember when, or more importantly, _how_ they had managed to get in the common room. She had been so careful about covering her tracks before...

"I found them under the sofa chair," Hermione explained, a somewhat smug feeling churning in her chest. She tried to not let it show. "I think the owner must be looking for them."

Isobel turned to her, ripping her arm from the Hermione's grasp. "Why would you go pinning up someone's... _things_ like that?! Imagine how that person must feel. That's…that's—-"

"Oh, calm down. It's not like we have a 'Lost and Found' box here," she explained innocently, cooly. "Besides, if you don't know who's it is, then just say it."

Isobel's face was turning red and boys were starting to gather for a better look-see. She had trouble finding her words.

This was embarrassing—this was _more_ than embarrassing—this was _humiliating_! Isobel was growing anxious and scared with every passing second and she felt that Hermione must have an idea, somehow. She could feel her own face burning and hoped a blush couldn't be seen in the dim lighting.

"How else was the owner supposed to know that they were found?"

"And now they're _not_ even going to claim them, much less _wear_ them! Everyone's going to know it's _their_ undergarments that were displayed like a bulletin."

"It's just _knickers_ ," Hermione chided. "No one's going to see them, unless they sleep around like some loose—-"

"It's _embarrassing_!" Isobel tried not to raise her voice too much, not wanting to and not wanting fingers pointing. She's never really liked yelling much, anyway.

"Well it's not _my_ problem is it? _They_ shouldn't have left them here."

"Left them _where_?!"

 _This_ made Isobel's face red. How _dare_ she? Isobel couldn't say anything, less Hermione piece together that it was hers, and she didn't want that with a room full of others. She didn't want anyone to know at all. She was starting to consider suggesting to just throw them in the fire after all this fuss. She wasn't going to wear them anymore...

Her fingers twirled the ends of her shirt.

She had almost yelled, practically did, and Hermione's eyes widened in surprise for a split second before narrowing again.

But with face obviously angry and red, Isobel raised her finger to the witch, ready to accuse her more and hoping that something witty would fly from her mouth, she was interrupted by footsteps. A voice pushed to get through and when Harry stepped to the front, Isobel's words stuck in her throat.

He threw his arms up. "What the bloody hell is _this_ , Hermione?!"

The other was obviously not expecting him to come down…or to be looking as angry as he was. Harry's nostril flared once and Isobel panicked for a second time.

"H-Harry..? I thought you were studying—-"

His arms were up again. "Is that…" He stepped closer getting a better look, squinting. He looked back at her incredulously. " _You_ did this?" He had heard it from a passing of girls giggling about it and had rushed over, but was still in dismay at the act.

"I found them on the floor, and—-"

"On the _floor_?" he repeated in mock disbelief.

Isobel shuffled on her feet, her head lowered and held back a slight smirk by biting her cheek.

"Under the couch. I was just hung them s-so I could find the owner—-"

His arms were crossed now, feet planted apart in defense. "You wanted to _find the owner_ by _pinning them_ rather than _asking_...?"

It was beginning to sound ridiculous the more it was repeated, Hermione agreed. She began regretting this all.

She huffed, not wanting to stand down. "Well, how do _you_ suggest doing it then?"

"Just leave them be like a _bloody normal person_!"

A shiver went through the room. It wasn't typical for Harry to yell, neither that angrily. Isobel had even jumped a bit. The room had grown noticeably quieter.

"Do you know how many people are in our house!?" Hermione raised her voice back, arms folding and obviously uncomfortable. "I have to study just the same as you! Do you think I have _time_ to go around and ask every person who's they are?!"

An uncomfortable pause passed them for a split second.

"Get," Harry stuttered, hand indicating at the bright underwear he struggled to not make eye contact with. "Get-get them down."

Hermione stood her ground. After a few pleases to keep it up, she sighed in defeat and waved her wand. "Here," she tossed them to Harry without pause. He fumbled them, a little panic typical of holding girl's underwear. "Here's your girl panties."

He was more surprised that she had listened, less that he was holding a pair of underwear that were nowhere his. He did glare before murmuring, "fine. I'll take them to McGonagall…I guess."

The common room quieted as he walked out with a wad of underwear shoved in his pocket.

Isobel's pulse was raced a mile a minute, more than thankful for him.

Those who had gathered around were obviously unsure of what to do now and just stood awkwardly looking around. Hermione turned her glare at Isobel, to which the other began scratching the nape of her neck, turning away purposely.

She didn't know why Hermione had done this, but then again, Isobel rarely spoke to her. Maybe she was always like this. Maybe she had started putting two and two together and was realizing Isobel's side actions...

With most of those who still lingering in the common room began turning toward Isobel and whispering amongst themselves, the girl became afraid again and turned back to go up to her bedroom, ears a blazing crimson.

 **. . . .**

The Gryffindor common room is located in one of the several tower at Hogwarts, the view gave students a nice view of the school grounds, depending on which window you looked from. The tower was also at a good angle for sunlight to stream in, and that is what woke Isobel most mornings.

Now, she was alone in the bedroom she shared with four others, and currently, she was alone and looking out the window. From her view, she could see the edge of the lake, and a flock of birds pass overhead.

Isobel was quiet and picked at the cuticles on her fingers. Her hair was still semi-wet and created a thin spot of moisture on her back, but she was still burning from anxiety and didn't take much notice.

Before, she had been ready to escape in her bedroom and calm down, ready to sleep, but her ears still burned from embarrassment.

Oh god, she was so embarrassed! Never had she expected someone to pull a move like _that_ , much less _Granger_.

Granger, that study wart. Abrasive, grating, assertive, and the girl was quite jarring in her opinion. Hermione the Terrible, Insufferable Granger, as Isobel's heard others call her; that Miss Know-It-All...

Isobel hoped that this wouldn't spread even if no one knew for sure if those were her underwear. But still...

Oh god, that was _so_ embarrassing!

...She wasn't going to get them back...

Isobel was sitting on the edge of her bed now, staring at nothing in particular. She couldn't focus, really, her mind creating imaginary scenarios that worried her even more. After that incident, she was grateful that Harry continue being such a kind soul, but she knew it was only a matter of time until _he_ would come through that door, and Isobel wasn't sure how she felt about that. Well, part of her didn't mind and she knew that there were ways of getting past the jinxed staircase to the girls bedrooms. But it was always instant sex between them. Like, from just being in a room together would be filled with tension, mainly the two giving each other knowing gestures and eye signals.

 _…The boy with dark, messy hair's embrace is where she would find herself many nights._

 _Isobel would see him giving her a certain look and molten heat would shoot through her like lightening and she would need to have him._

Actually, that's kind of how all this began—just raging hormones.

It didn't help that they were always in such close proximity too, with not much in between them.

But there were things stopping them, such as their friends, her brother, the Head of the House, and then there were their jinxed quarters themselves… There was just too much pressure. And sometimes, Isobel wondered whether or not she even wanted a relationship like _that_ , like the one Ginny had with Dean which Isobel sometimes found herself growing envious of...

So she wrung her fingers together, waiting for the knock at the door from _him_ to come. And when he finally did, the door opened when she gave no answer, personally not knowing _whether to_ answer.

She stood to her feet, breath lost, and all she could do was mutter his name in an acknowledged greeting. He peeked inside, looked around, noted no one was there and quickly stepped inside, locking the door before others saw. His eyes returned to her and Isobel automatically wrapped her arms around herself, which in hindsight was odd. She was only in a tank top and pajama pants and he's seen her in much less before, anyway.

"Are you alright?"

She glanced up at him and knew her eyes were wide. Never had he asked her about her wellbeing except under the sheets or in public to save face. This automatically raised flags in her mind.

Isobel shuffled, looking off to the side. "Yeah. Why? So?"

His brows furrowed. He pointed behind him, indicating the common room. "Because Hermione just..."

"Who cares about her," she spat to save face but saw his taken aback look and backtracked. "She doesn't bother me. Never has…."

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "I dunno… She seems to be coming pretty close to finding out about... But I don't know how—-"

"I don't know either."

"—-I-I-I mean she was never _there_ _before_." He began tripping over his words. His legs fidgeted like he wanted to pace. "A-and you made sure there was nothing left behind, so…um..."

Isobel just shrugged. "I dunno."

She looked to her socks. Fingers playing with the ends of her brown ponytail over her shoulder. The silence was odd and awkward and she wished it to go away. Isobel only looked up hearing his steps approach her. He took her hair in his hand, twirling a curl around a finger. His face was oddly close too.

"You _sure_ you're—-"

"I'm fine," she cut him off harshly.

Isobel didn't know where this was leading and she wanted to cut this short before it all led to something else. Sometimes he could bee _too_ touchy, _too_ tender, and _too_ affectionate and it borderlined violating their regulations. Although she loved their carnal rendezvous and just his general presence, she doubted that they'd be able to keep it exclusively this way—at least, _he_ wouldn't, not anymore. She's seen the way he would linger and dancing the line of their one _no kissing_ rule—she's never said anything but she's noticed it. But he was kind, honeyed, and a satisfying _different_. And she wasn't sure she wanted to continue this arrangement; she _has_ been thinking lately…and then there were the talks from others...

Isobel bit her lip and lowered her gaze, unsure.

Just then, she felt the heat of his face leaning closer. Her chin was in his hand now and she inwardly panicked, eyes growing wide.

He was going to kiss her!

His eyes were fluttering close and his bottom lip trembled just the slightest. His breath splashed across her face and then his scent flooded her senses—it was him, him, _him_ —his bangs brushing hers, his heat, his bright, brilliant eyes clouded, his touch an intense fire on her skin.

He was going to kiss her—

He was an inch away. Isobel whispered a wordless excuse, words refusing to sound. His other hand hovered above her waist, itching to pull her closer. She stood rigid, unable to move as his swollen lips inched nearer and nearer and nearer still.

At the last second her head turned to the side, revealing her cheek instead. Isobel squeezed her eyes shut. The boy immediately froze and she could feel the awkwardness suffocating their air, his dispirited emotions coming off in waves.

She had to stop this before this became too intimate. It would be too easy to, it always was—too quickly, her legs would be wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the meat of his back, and then his lips would be on her neck, and she would want his touch and just him, him, him, and she would moan...

 _'Think of something,'_ she screamed to herself, the silence deafening. _'Think of something to say!'_

"Did those—my—knickers get to McGonagall?" It has probably been thirty minutes since Harry left with them. Or, that was her imagination exaggerating again.

He hesitated to answer. "Yes. And I made sure to steal them when she wasn't looking." He pulled out the bunched cloth from his pocket.

Isobel looked from them to him, and just seeing him holding her underwear made a feeling stir in her. He'd had them in his grasp very much before, but the two were usually less clothed so it had flown over their heads. Isobel has not seen him in possession of her private belongings of this intimacy, and here, also at the risk of someone walking in, intensified the feelings in the air.

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what to do here. He was used to their meetings now leading to intimacy, more or less. Only recently did it begin to not be, by his doing.

Her eyes were narrowed when she looked back at him and she hesitantly stepped closer, taking her panties with a hushed and hurried "thank you." She looked off to the side, afraid that she would spread to a full-fledged blush if she were to look again. This was incredibly embarrassing and she had her pride to keep.

He, on the other hand, wasn't staring at her like she thought and was looking around the room, feeling much out of place. He hadn't been in her room before—probably glanced around quickly, and aside from that one night together after a game of truth or dare. But it had been very dark that night, so he didn't think that counted.

Isobel shuffled, not knowing what to do and just stood there, and when he took in her side of the room, let out a chuckle. She muttered a curt "thank you," hoping he'd get the message and step out.

They hadn't always been this way. In fact, there was a time they used to be friends, but that too was some time ago.

In the beginning, they couldn't keep their hands off each other, or more precisely, she couldn't keep her hands off him. Whenever they were to together there was an undeniable pull, a starving urge that she just _had_ to have him—even now in the room.

She placed her hands on her hips, hoping to appear serious, but her eyes were too soft and her pout ingenuous and button nose peppered with bronze stars that amused him when it wrinkled.

After their plentiful moments spent, she's somehow found ways into his room, and vise versa, without being caught by the enchanted stairs that would disappear under boys' feet.

The boy ruffled his hair and mumbled something she didn't catch. Isobel huffed and he turned to leave, though not without mentioning that her underwear was "quite prominent in those pajama pants she wore."

She waited until the door closed shut, fell back to her bed in a heavy sigh, and buried her face in her pillow.

She screamed into her pillow.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I'd love to hear your theories and thoughts so far! What would you want to see happen? (I do plan on mentioning more about Isobel's parents, and susiequeen300 if you read my other short story I do mention Draco ;) )_**


	6. Indication

**_A/N:_** ** _This one ended up being pretty long and is_** ** _broken up in two chapters too. ** _Feel free to tell me if the chapters start to slack (because I'm not too fond of this_** ** _chapter since it's only a half)._**_**

 **[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]**

* * *

No one liked Dolores Umbridge, that much was certain since her first week here, and students were beginning to prefer risking being near Quirrell with Voldemort still on the back of his head than this woman.

But _woman_?—no; devil was more like the term that fit her. She was like that Catholic girl who _you_ know is two-faced, but no one believed that _she_ could be the Sunday school bully. She was that one student whom the teachers were always coincidentally _looking away_ when she cheated on tests or placed gum on the back of another child's head, and she _never_ got caught. She was that one child who, if things didn't go her way, would throw a tantrum that would raise demons. The woman _would_ raise demons if she could.

No one liked Dolores Umbridge, even the Hogwarts professors. No one liked her. She was terrible, and so far, the worse DADA teacher yet.

And Lupin was still missed. No one could beat Professor Lupin, who was still held highly and favored among most students.

Now months later into the year, it is certain that Umbridge would not last at Hogwarts, having fell for several tricks and pranks by students already, once eating a treat from the Weasley's Skiving Snackbox and her face blowing up like a toad's. But that was in her first week. Now, the woman has buckled down, only forcing false smiles to her students and all she interacted with. Many have even tried to get switched out of the class to take another elective, but only few were lucky.

And today on this _"wonderful"_ Wednesday morning, the woman dressed in a nauseating amount of bubblegum pink stood at the front of the room, same plastic smile plastered on her face as she ordered the class to turn to a page on their _new and improved_ books.

Ginny groaned. "Just kill me know," came the mumble under her breath.

Isobel snorted.

Umbridge locked eyes with the ginger. "What was that, dear?" Her sweetness was forced, faux.

Ginny sobered up. "Nothing," she frowned. "And _don't_ call me _"dear.'_ "

The class lowered in volume and eyes turned to her. Umbridge's nostrils flared like the woman was holding back from snapping at the girl. Isobel glanced to Ginny at her side and wouldn't be too shocked if Umbridge sent a hex this way.

The brunette usually sat in the desk behind and next to another friend of theirs but after the incident of a couple days ago in the Gryffindor common room about Hermione and those knickers, and the suspicious looks that were going around, Isobel's two friends wanted her to sit next to the redhead today.

Though Isobel could manage her own completely fine, she was popularly regarded as innocent and saintly, making her a supposed-easy target by the few who didn't fear the wrath of her brother. Unfortunately, Ginny and their friend saw her in the same popular light and agreed that this was "best for sweet Isobel." And she couldn't say too much against it. She didn't want to, hating conflict—and it would definitely come when Ginny and the other started shooting question after question of why and what else she's held from them.

Yeah, she couldn't tell them, at least, until this incident boiled over and died.

She's felt nervous ever since Hermione's incident in the common room.

At the front of the classroom, Umbridge huffed, forcing herself calm. "Alright then." She looked like she was in visible pain to not spit back. "Read the first passage for us, why don't you?" Her calm tone masked the rage her expression gave away.

As much as Ginny would have loved to answer "why don't I not," she had Quidditch practice to attend later and couldn't afford detention.

Ginny sighed loudly. "The ig—-"

"Stand _up_!"

Ginny glared at the woman before pushing her chair back and reading the text aloud. _"The iguana is a genus of herbivorous lizard native to tropic areas of Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean. Discovered around the 1960s, only two were described at the time: the green iguana, which is widespread throughout its range and very useful in magic such as transfiguration; and the Lesser Antillean iguana, which is native to Lesser Antilles and is endangered..."_

Ginny's tone was anything but interested and was just short of sarcasm, and it took everything for the snickers to be held at a minimum and low. And seeing Umbridge grow angrier just made it that much more amusing.

Everyone knew now the story why the woman was here and that these ridiculous textbooks were part of her insisting. The books did very little in teaching besides showing what _The Ministry_ wanted and approved of, rather then what was important to be taught, especially with rumors of Voldemort's return.

When Ginny finished reading the text aloud, she looked Umbridge straight in the eye and plopped back in her seat.

The woman's nostrils flared again and she forced a calm," thank you, Miss Weasley."

Ginny gave a returning bitter smile in return.

It was humorous, really. Since that devil in pink began here, this is what class has become—a sort of sly mocking back and forth. And Ginny wasn't the only one who's done it—it was growing throughout the entire class, year, and castle where almost everyone would turn into a smartass when addressed by the woman.

Umbridge returned to pacing down the aisles, telling more of animals—approved by The Ministry, of course—that are the useful in magic.

Ginny waited until she passed their desk to slide something in Isobel's hand under the table. The brunette was taken by surprise and jumped slightly. She felt that it was a folded, torn piece of parchment.

Umbridge turned to the front, walking up the next aisle, and Ginny waited until her back was to them again to lean in the other's ear.

"That was given to me on my way here. It's for you."

Isobel waited until the coast was clear. "Who's it from?" she whispered back.

Ginny opened her mouth to answer, but snapped it shut when Umbridge suddenly stopped her lecture, calling out that some were not paying attention, hearing talking that wasn't hers.

Isobel slipped the folded note under her robe and between her legs.

Umbridge glanced around the room and seeing that all eyes were now on her, continued her rambling and pacing.

Isobel glanced at Ginny for an answer and received a shrug that she didn't know. Isobel slipped the note into her robe's pocket.

The conversation didn't pick back up until after DADA ended for the day and the class rushed out like cockroaches under a light, most not caring to even shove their books in their bags before practically running out the door.

"What were you two mumbling about?" the third of their group, a girl named Melanie, came bounding up to the two after class.

Melanie Stanmore is the friend and roommate of Isobel and Ginny, and the three had become close friends after Isobel overcame her shyness after her second year. Melanie was the one Isobel usually sat beside in DADA class and who admitted that the hot-tempered Ginny was a better option today. Melanie usually gushed over how cool Ginny looked in her Quidditch uniform, which she wore today, and that she herself could never pull it off.

Ginny gave a cheeky smile to Melanie. "Isobel received a love letter," Ginny informed in a sort of singsong voice.

The brunette's ears blazed red. She shook her head. "Now I'm sure it isn't a _love_ letter..."

"Uh huh," Ginny wasn't convinced. "Because whoever it was _knew_ you'd get it in the _worse_ class possible, and making you have to wait. And they have good penmanship—I can see through the parchment."

Melanie's eyes were wide. "Oooh! Open it, open it!" she chirped.

Now, Isobel's cheeks were heating.

Taking a few steps ahead first, she retrieved the letter from her robe's pocket and tentatively unfolded it, hunching over the paper and keeping it from the eyes of Ginny and Melanie who were trying to look over her shoulder.

It wasn't short and to the point like she expected, so it definitely wasn't from whom she had first thought. Instead, it was a detailed and thought out letter of someone's doting over her.

She folded the letter back and her pace slowed, her tan cheeks now holding a faint red hue. She knew exactly who it was now...

"Oooh! She's blushing!" Ginny called, the three rejoining and weaving around a group of Ravenclaw Quidditch players. "What'd it say?"

Isobel's eyes focused on the ground. "Nothing," was her answer and picked up her pace.

Ginny and Melanie matched Isobel's quickened steps.

She knew who it was—it was someone she hasn't had contact with for some time now and had begun wondering when she would hear from him again. She spoke this and Ginny was the first to blurt.

"So it's a _him_ ," the cheeky smile returned.

Isobel didn't bother to look up, her face on fire. "Yes, it's a _him_ ," she stated in a hush.

She didn't want to tell them; she _wasn't_ going to tell. There was enough going on and she preferred to keep the drama to herself rather than make it public. It would be kept to a minimum that way.

Her fingers fidgeted with ends if her robe's sleeve.

"What's his name?" Melanie pressed. "What'd the love letter say?"

Isobel shook her head, and when Melanie asked what house he was in, she kept her lips shut.

"It's not a love letter," Isobel lied.

"Then what was it?" Both girls were eager to hear it, smiles splitting their faces.

" _Isobel has a secret admirer_ ," Ginny sang.

Isobel's face burned. She shushed them both, not wanting certain ears to hear.

This was something that would be teased as unheard of and wild. Isobel was the nice, cherubic type—saint-like, she was mocked as by some. It was supposed that she was a _complete opposite_ of her sneaky, devious Slytherin brother, and the popular thought about her was not being capable of possessing the same qualities was derived from that expectation. And oh, how wrong they were.

"Is he cute?"

"Well, I guess so…"

"Is he funny?"

"Umm…" Isobel led the trio near the courtyard, eyes looking out for unexpected others.

"What house is he in?"

"Does he have good hair? Good taste?"

"Well he likes Isobel," Ginny winked, "so I'd _suppose_ so."

"True," Melanie smiled, joking. "Is he tall? Maybe you can owl him."

"Is he on the Quidditch team?"

"Is he going to send you chocolates? I want some if it's dark."

"Uhh…"

"Has he taken you to Madam Puddifoot's Teashop in Hogsmeade yet? That's the best place to go. A lot of couples go there."

"You two should have gone to The Yule Ball together. I bet you both would have looked cute together."

"You haven't even seen him," Isobel brought up.

"Oh so you _do_ know who he is!"

"Hey, I saw her at The Ball," Ginny added, turning to Melanie. "Remember?"

Isobel kept silent and continued walking. But she did remember.

The Yule Ball had been a sparkling and…interesting experience. Like others, she had searched for a date, though hers didn't take a long time to find, unlike some. She had gotten dressed along with Ginny, Lavender, Parvati, Hermione, and two other Gryffindor girls. They later met their dates outside The Great Hall where The Ball was held, had danced, ate, and near the end, all had snuck off together. It was indeed fun, despite a few run-ins that came close to ruining their night, but it hadn't ended _too_ badly. Also, despite Ginny's sore feet.

"Yeah, you were dancing with—-"

"Yes," Isobel interrupted. "Yes I did."

Melanie pouted. "I wish I had seen it."

Ginny grinned.

Isobel kept the note in her pocket and her face would have a tinge of red for the rest of the day.

"We should do something like that again. Maybe at Hogsmeade?" Ginny suggested.

"Please stop…"

"Isobel, you gonna bring _him_ along?" Melanie winked.

The brunette kept silent, afraid that she would unintentionally reveal something she shouldn't.

She hadn't meant to go so long without speaking with the boy and he would surely be wondering why as well. He had a right to be.

Isobel didn't bring the note out until the very end of the day when she was in bed. She took it out and read it once more to herself, this time letting a shy smile creep across her cheeks. Reading it created a nice fuzzy warmth that swirled in her, making her giddy. And she liked it, this feeling of pure happiness.

 **. . . .**

The next morning at breakfast in The Great Hall, the brunette sat with Mandy and Lavender again. This was one of the few times she saw her Ravenclaw friend and it had become habit that Lavender would join them, since Parvati would be with her sister.

A tray of toast floated in between the aisles and Isobel grabbed two.

"You're not going to up and leave again, are you?"

Isobel glared over her piece of toast, chewing slowly. "I wasn't feeling well, remember?"

"Well do you feel better today?" Mandy asked.

"That was over a week ago, Mandy…"

"I know but she could be feeling sick again," the Ravenclaw countered.

Lavender shrugged.

"I'm fine." Isobel forced a small smile. "I just had a, a stomach flu thing," she lied again.

"Did you throw up?" Lavender asked, intently and truly interested.

Mandy gave her an almost disgusted look, one that read "are you serious?"

Isobel hadn't truly felt sick, but awkward, embarrassed, and ill-timed, but she did receive a form of relief later that day…

Luckily, so far, she's been able to keep all this from her friends, leaving not a clue to what has been going on behind their backs and closed doors. That is, until _that_ incident.

"I heard that Runcorn said he might have a clue as who those knickers belonged to," Lavender added, changing the subject.

"Knickers?" Mandy questioned, and Isobel remained silent, eyes darting, her pulse jumping in what felt like her throat.

Lavender briefly filled the other in on what she heard had happened not too long ago. Isobel forced her toast down with orange juice. She prayed that none of this was becoming close to being found out, that it was just gossip that would soon fade.

"W-what'd Runcorn say?" she dared ask.

"Nothing, but one night when he was passing through to the stairs that there were what he thought were moans from one of the couches by the fireplace. But he said it could have just been his imagination and just snoring, since, you know, he's like _"that_. _'_ "

Runcorn was a known promiscuous guy, who took pride in who many he has managed to score up to this year, his final year—Isobel doubted that it was more than three, at the least.

She prayed that her face remained its normal hue.

"That's funny because there's been a few couples that do a lot of PDA in Ravenclaw. It's like they completely forget everything else around them when they do." Mandy took a bite of her eggs. That second sentence could have had a label about her wishfulness. "Me, it doesn't bother me much. …Except when you're trying to _study_ and then _all you can hear_ is the two of them _going at it_ …" She shook her head, eyebrows coming together.

Lavender's nose turned up in a grimace-like smile. "I don't know how they'd do it and _still_ pass their classes."

"You're probably just thinking too much of it," Isobel grinned, showing no hint of her personal knowledge, and taking a forkful of eggs from the serving platter in front of them.

Lavender shrugged. "I don't know…"

Conversation paused as both girls caught Mandy's nod from across the table and followed her gaze to their left. They watched Dean approaching from down the expansive table in a haste and then slump down on the long bench beside Isobel.

"I don't know either! I don't know what I'm gonna do either!"

Isobel warningly placed a hand on his head that had flopped to his folded arms on the table.

"You okay there…?" Lavender leaned around Isobel.

The boy's head snapped up and the girls saw his was contorted in twisted emotion. "You _have_ to talk to that friend of yours?"

" _My_ friend?"

"You mean Ginny?" Lavender asked.

Dean nodded. "I've been trying and-and trying, and it seems like everything or do I say just doesn't work!"

"What do you want with Ginny?"

"Have you thought that maybe you should just leave her be?" Isobel asked. Ginny was a hothead and temperamental at times, and that was genuinely just the best solution sometimes.

Dean's brows crinkled together. "You know I can't do that!"

"Why not?" one of the others asked and Dean's words jumbled together.

Isobel giggled. "Why not, Dean?" she repeated in a mock, egging it on, taking another bite of her toast.

He gave her an evil, deceitful glare. "Seriously, Isobel. I really want your help!"

"Why _me_?"

"What happened with Ginny? Weasley, right?" Mandy asked, having spoken with the girl on several occasions too when they had classes together.

Isobel dropped her chin in her hand. She didn't know what help could she possibly supply when she couldn't get her own drama together.

"I want to confess—-something to Ginny," he admitted.

And immediately this had Lavender's attention, cooing aloud. Mandy's brows arched, shocked, and Isobel held in her chuckles.

Dean told that his relationship had become rocky and brittle.

Isobel forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile. _'What a coincidence.'_

* * *

 ** _A/N: I had to do a request for a oneshot that I regret now and really wished I hadn't done. It took too much time away from my stories and that's why this chapter is so late._** ** _I apologize greatly for that, especially with this chapter being nothing special._**


	7. Furtive Nerves

**_A/N: This is the second half of the chapter because it was too long. It's about 1am here and I would really like to know if this story is running into the ground yet. I don't mean for it to be, that's why I'm asking._**

 **[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]**

* * *

When they were younger, Isobel and her brother were all that they had. They used to live in an orphanage and made sure that the few times they were separated by different families, both would put up such a fuss that they would _have_ to be brought back where they reunited each and every time. She and her brother refused to be separated like so many of other siblings they've seen. They were all they had, so why should they?

In those days, Isobel had been convinced that she was just a little…more _gifted_ than other children, and is why strange occurrences happened around her. This is what her brother was able to convince her for the first decade of her life, until after they were finally adopted together and she found a letter in the mail, one her brother hadn't been able to get to before she and tear it up. That is how Isobel received her Hogwarts letter and found out she was magic.

If they were to ask a few years ago, a beaming but timid young girl would gush about her admiration for her big brother, how she believed him and that he could never do wrong.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

And now, she would hardly be recognizable from that little girl. Yes, she did still have the same unmanageable curls and slanted eyes, and sometimes she did stammer and her voice was too soft. But she'd learned to accept adventure and be daring, and become more bold and gritty, opposing the mousy and gutless little miss she had been.

"Where were you?"

Her brother stomped after her. He had caught her coming from the dungeon classroom late in the day, knowing well that she hadn't had class there at the time and he approached with a narrowed-eyed and suspicious stare.

Isobel continued in her hurried pace, jutting her chin out. She knew he was watching her like a hawk, and kept her eyes straight ahead. This wasn't the first time she's ignore him until he left.

The halls below Hogwarts were few in occupants and with less sunlight here anyway, few ventured to the dungeons unless absolutely necessary, which was scarcely anyone other than Slytherins.

Isobel didn't bother turning around to face him and her nose crinkled in a disgusted look. And when a hand grabbed her arm, she whirled around, pulling away angrily.

"What does it matter?" she snapped.

His hold released when she spun around and he gaped for a split second.

Her eyes blazed and her brother's familiar scowl adorned his face.

One of the things they had in common were their eyes; both had dazzling hazel eyes inherited from one of their parents.

Her brother's tone dropped, softer this time but still grating, and he decided to not tred about the subject of the classroom just yet. "We were supposed to meet up, remember?" His stare was always condescending— _cold_ and _stony_ some had even described. Isobel had never seen it.

"Oh, so you can pester me about what I do all times of the day again? I don't need you to watch over me anymore, _Theo_. I can handle myself just fine, thank you." Her robe swayed as she turned back forward, high curly ponytail bouncing with her strides.

He stepped in her path, rage peeking, bringing her to stop but she stood her ground. Sometimes she puffs out her chest, a habit she's done since she was little whenever she was anger or subconsciously wanted to make herself appear larger.

"You wouldn't have lasted this long _without_ me," Theo snapped. "What do you think they would have done to some girl after blowing the fish up in the fish tank back at the orphanage? And that snow in July?"

Her chest puffed out and her eyes narrowed dangerously. She shot back: "ok then, you want a medal for that then? A _thank you_?" She raised on tiptoe out of habit, another habit to impossibly trying to be eye level with him.

They were out in the courtyard so neither had to worry about their volume or listening ears.

"I'm _trying to help you_ , you know that. If you just _listened_ —-!"

"I'm doing _just_ fine. And there's nothing to worry about." Her anger was simmering down now, seeing her brother lose his steam as well. She began walking away again, wanting solitary and go back to her own business and just general peace.

Her Gryffindor scarf was tied around her chin and from a soft breeze that blew, she caught a whiff of the scent that still lingered on it. It smelled like _him_ , from when she let him borrow her scarf a few weeks ago, and she found herself instantly calming. She just wanted to be back in Gryffindor Tower now...

Her brother rocked back on his heels. "You know that's not true…"

His eyes were slanted like hers but his held a sort of droopiness that made him permanently look either uninterested or bored. Others have said that he had an intense glare that left them uncomfortable, but of course, Isobel never saw it. He also attained a constant frown as his resting face from always fighting back at the orphanage but now, what Isobel guessed, was just his bitter attitude.

She also knew about his temper, and that was the main reason why she kept her rendezvous a secret. If he'd found out that anything remotely traumatic or fraud has happened to her, he'd set out on a cataclysmic rampage. Sometimes, her brother has been a little too hex-happy.

His arms folded, glaring down at her from behind his thick black bangs. "You know it isn't safe anywhere here anymore. Especially at this castle."

Isobel's jaw dropped, sputtering a sarcastic laugh. "You…you can't be serious." _He was falling for it too._ "You honestly think that—-" She stopped herself from speaking Voldemort's name, seeing her brother hold his breath. "-— _You-Know-Who_ is going to come— _here_?"

"Stranger things have happened," he countered, almost in monotone.

"Says the guy who turned toads into balloons," she muttered under her breath.

His glare returned and intensified and she averted eye contact, deciding that the cobblestone pathway was _far_ more intriguing.

"Why are you being so difficult!?"

Isobel leaned up on tiptoes again. "Why are _you_ smothering me!?"

A Hufflepuff boy and Ravenclaw girl who were leaned over a textbook looked up at the siblings. They began shifting uncomfortably on the bench, whispering to each other if they should leave. Isobel just shook her head to herself and continued forward, weaving between three tall boulders and trailing down a grassyhill that overlooked Hagrid's hut.

Theo, her brother, huffed in a melodramatic manner that she ignored. Sometimes she thinks he was such a drama queen...

"I'm only trying to do what's best for you." He watched her walk a good twelve steps ahead and plop on a patch of grass, wrapping her robe tighter around herself.

"How would you know what's best for me?" She raised her scarf to her nose again. Its faint scent sent her head whirling and eased her rising anger. Her voice drifts off to a whisper. "You've lied to me for years already. How do you know what I even like, what I'm like?"

She didn't glance his way. It would forever be difficult between them, and not just because they were in different houses and their year gap.

She was beginning to think that she didn't even know who he was anymore. This added on why she persisted avoiding him, where now she was the one constantly spitting lies.

Back home with the couple that finally adopted them together, the tension between the siblings was apparent. After they explained that Isobel and Theo had been placed in rivalry houses—they had to explain quite a bit about magic since their new parents were muggles—the couple had made a game of it, similar to a house divided over two sports teams. Then years passed by, Hogwarts became more dangerous, and Isobel grew up. With her being able to think and fend for herself, Isobel's eyes were opened to all that had happened, and she almost never obeyed her brother's wishes again. He had found this out when she started being taught by Snape, and Theo hadn't taken that very well either.

Theo had a temper and Isobel had a nice face that acted like a mask.

Her brother didn't say anything in reply to her reply. He couldn't—he didn't have anything else to say. He knew he was guilty for manipulating her, lying to her since she was small, and there was probably nothing that could make her forget.

"You still go to that big nosed coward after classes?" he finally spoke when the silence became too much.

She knew he was referring to Snape. Theo's never liked Snape.

At first she didn't respond to his question.

She joked: "it's funny you say that because you never know—Snape could be our distant cousin since you both do look a bit similar…"

Granted, his anger steamed back again at that offense. He claimed, indecently, that he resembled _nothing_ like that wombat. "How do you know that he's not trying to use _you_ for his own personal gain? He's nothing but a _coward_."

"Well I also didn't know that Mum was most likely alive, or that I looked just like her." Her comment bit like ice, and Theo went silent and still. "Did you know that, Theo? And that she was once important, like royalty?"

The wind blew, its air crisp and chilly due to the changing seasons.

"Who told you?" His tone was low, brittle. Then it burst, almost reaching a yell. "That giant slug told you, didn't he! Where'd you get that from?"

Isobel didn't even flinch at his finger pointing at her now and kept her eyes ahead, watching the trees of The Forbidden Forest.

"He's filling your head with _lies_ , Isobel!"

Her gaze was equally hostile as she turned to him. "Like _you_?" This extinguished his steam completely. "Don't go and act like your some kind of saint. We all aren't; none of us are." She then pulled her knees to her chest, pulling her scarf closer to smell the scent of the boy with the messy, dark hair, the one she once thought she loved. Isobel closed her eyes, voice trailing off. "You can leave me alone now, Theo."

He remained standing at her side, clenching his hands open and close. "Isobel—"

"And yes, I do go to Snape every week, and there's nothing you can do about that. He's very helpful whether you believe it or not—and don't act like you don't—because he told me. Of you. Second to fourth year."

Theo wanted to become angry but she was right.

"I have friends now; I have a life that I'd like to keep it the way it is without any meddeling."

Theo gaped. "I'm not meddeling—-!"

"You were meddeling," she finalized, her tone calming once more. "And what year am I in again? I'm old enough now, Theo, and I can do things on my own."

She heard her brother sigh heavily and in defeat.

When they were younger, it wasn't unusual that Theo would be seen beating up another adolescent or cursing someone who had bullied his sister. There wasn't anyone who gotten away with bullying her, mercy pray over those who made her cry. Isobel had been his only family and had grown quite overprotective of her.

Because he had be taken to Hogwarts once is why he ripped up her letter, not wanting her to get involved in hexes and ghosts and alleged prophecies. He didn't want her to be at risk and wanted to "keep her safe." But as the years went by and she grew more comfortable with her house as distance between them grew, he saw that she was changing, that she was growing up—he hadn't liked that. And when she had won that dueling challenge against that Hufflepuff her second year, he reluctantly realized that she would be fine on her own and he stopped poking his head everywhere.

But that all went out the window when he found out that she was being mentored by Snape, of all teachers.

Isobel found a flower at her side and fiddled with its pedals. It was one of those that changed color according to the picker's emotion, a sort of mood daisy.

In the distance, The Whomping Willow shook its branches in warning when a flock of birds neared.

The smell of something sweet carried on the air from Hagrid's hut. Isobel has never entered the demi-giant's house before—she felt like that would be intrusive—but she remembered when he taught Care for Magical Creatures two years ago and how fun and caring he had been. That had been a happy year, when everything was still sane and made sense. Now, she was running from three guys—which included her brother—while simultaneously returning back into the arms of one.

Her life was a mess.

The autumn wind blew in their faces and turned their noses cold.

Theo's stony glare continued watching her from behind. Isobel eventually heard to his slow, tentative steps crunch along the grass to stand beside her.

Right away, one might not recognize the siblings' resemblances immediately. Their main differences were their hair—Isobel's corkscrew brown contrasted his pitch black locks that hung straight. Their skin was naturally tan but hers was a shade lighter, a light fulvous that made her faint freckles something of popular subject during first encounters, while her brown was a pleasant acorn tone with similar skin stars.

Theo clenched and unclenched his hands at his side before stuffing them in his pockets. His Slytherin tie was undone because he never liked it anyway besides having already received warnings about it from Umbridge. He always just rolled his eyes about it anyway.

Plumes of smoke came from the small chimney of the hut down the hill, and off in The Forest, a creature let out a guttural screech.

Her brother was very prideful, almost never admitted his wrong. So when he shuffled, huffing out an "alright; you're right," Isobel was careful to not add a snarky remark.

 _"It's an interesting thing, having a brother that's a Slytherin and sister that's a Gryffindor,"_ their adoptive mother commented one evening last summer break. It had been around dinnertime and Isobel and Theo were helping set the table. And the evening had been going well, until she asked that obnoxious question that had lately become her favorite subject: _"Isobel, you have a boyfriend yet? He'd be in Gryffindor, wouldn't he?"_

 _The brunette had choked on her drink. When she came to, still coughing, she grimaced. "Ah, no!"_

 _"No?" The forty-something year old woman placed the main dish on the table. "He's not in Gryffindor? So he's in some other house then? How does that work because I thought you said you only see one_ — _-"_

 _"No I don't have a boyfriend." Isobel coughed, finishing her drink, already tired of this subject. "Can we not, please?"_

 _The woman had rolled her eyes, remembering when she was younger and hated this question as well. "You seem different, you know. That's why I asked."_

 _Isobel traced the designs on the side of her glass. "I'm not in second year anymore so…"_

From the hut, the two saw the front door open and a dark head look around cautiously. Theo and Isobel watched Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter exit Hagrid's little hut and wave goodbye. Theo watched with a leery squint. Isobel looked off to the side as they approached but Theo held eye contact with a condescending glare to each Gryffindor as they approached and passed to enter back into the castle. Isobel picked the flower at her side and it turned a dark blueish almost brown color in her hands, the noises of the trio's footsteps shifting from crunching grass to scuffs on the castle floor, paired with their faint whispers.

Theo noticed the flower change color in Isobel's hand as Hermione passed by, the priggish Gryffindor girl keeping her chin too high. Actually, he didn't need to see it to feel the tension between the two—really, it was from Isobel, her emotions also causing a gust of wind that almost knocked Ron over. Isobel only pulled her scarf closer, listening to the footsteps fade.

"What's with you and her," Theo asked when the trio was out of earshot.

Isobel mumbled, lying that there was nothing. He knew she was lying.

" _Nothing_?"

She nodded her head.

"Ok then, so that flower just indicated that you're upset over… _nothing_ …?"

Isobel glanced at the plant in her fingers and tossed it to the ground. It returned to its normal white color.

He waited a few minutes to see if she would respond. When she didn't, bend down a bit. "You want me to hex her for you?" he whispered.

It was all in good nature, a suggestion that he was never truly going to perform, and still Isobel giggled, telling him to not worry about it. He was smiling deviously and she nudged his willowy legs playfully.

"My sister is upset about something, of course I'm going to worry about it." She heard a soft thud beside her as he occupied the now-empty path the trio had just made. He asked for the flower, it turning a very light shade of pink when it touched his freezing fingers.

She leaned over to watch him twirl it in his hand.

"What does pink mean?" She couldn't recall being taught that information in herbology or potions class.

"Love. It's a type of love that's not romantic, like…like…ours—-like the Grays'," he corrected quickly, calling their adopted parents by their last names. Isobel wondered if he looked away then because of embarrassment. "I know you can give it to your friends or family when it's pink."

"But it turned white when I dropped it."

"That's because you picked it, of course. White means it's dead. And it's autumn; everything's dying."

She admitted that this was new to her and he grew cocky, proud that it was something new he taught her that the professors didn't.

Isobel chuckled, taking the flower back. "And blueish brown means irritation, right?"

Theo's face fell. "Actually, it means something close to anger… You can find out about it in the library. I read it in a book once, some years ago when I had to check out a book for a class and I found that it had all of the color meanings in it."

Isobel mused this over. Maybe if she ran into Neville, she would consider looking for it. He must know that section of the library inside and out.

Theo watched his sister, gauging her reactions now. "Say, Isobel…have you…have you felt, whenever you get angry, do you ever start to shake a little?"

He knew that she didn't like feeling that emotion, anger, helplessness, and pretty much anything negative, claiming that it left her feeling drained but thought that this was important to ask.

She shook her head in answer.

"Well, has it become easier to get what you want from people?" When her brows crinkled, not completely sure of what he was trying to say, he clarified: "like, has it appeared that everything tends to go…a little _too_ well? Like it isn't hard to convince someone or to get something from someone?"

 _What was he talking about?_

Honestly, she's never thought about it before. "Why?" she asked.

Theo paused, wondering if he should ask her to pay attention next time or flat out tell his suspicions. It was something that he began noticing around his third year and wondered if his sister had it too, was going through the same experience; it was something he too had been told was a quality that made their parent great.

He decided against it.

"That book I mentioned was like a four inch green cover in the landscape and plants section of the library. It shouldn't be past the third shelf if they hadn't rearranged things too much again."

And once again, he diverged to another subject, tossing the last and trying to erase it from existence already. Once again, he was keeping information from her that she well had a right to know.


	8. Hesitant

**[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]**

* * *

"Infatuation wouldn't be it, I don't think…" some student's voice trailed off as Melanie, Lavender, and Isobel passed an aisle in the library.

Melanie perked up, overhearing the conversation as she led the three of them down the library's maze. "Maybe that's it! Infatuation?" Her finger was in the air at the proposition.

Lavender huffed, her small lips tightening. "No it's not!" It was more than that, more than infatuation, she wanted to say. "…Someone in _your_ _year_ just wouldn't understand."

"And why not?" Isobel countered as they passed a study group of Slytherins bent over several open book. Her tone didn't suggest any ill feelings and by now, she had learned to master it—at least for the most part. "Do _you_ know? Would _you_ be able to determine the difference?" She and the others were careful to not surpass a harsh whisper in fear that Ms. Pince, the librarian, would scold them.

Lavender's brows crinkled. "And what would _you_ know about love?" It came out almost as a snap but it really was a preposterous subject. As if _any_ of them would _truly_ now the meaning of the word anyway...

Isobel didn't answer forthright, forcing her lips tight at the last second before she could blurt her comeback that probably would have been way too honest. "Calm down, Lav," she replied calmly and instead. "I was just asking…"

Melanie crossed her arms, also suggesting the other's temper was unnecessary.

The three continued down the library, their conversation reduced to silent tension until Lavender caught sight of the Patil twins sharing a table, and ran off to them without a parting. Melanie and Isobel watched, huffing in silence at the third's sore attitude and continued quietly, musing over the possibility that Lavender only had a crush on Ronald Weasley.

Melanie whispered that "at least _that_ is over with," about the fifth year.

And yes, the famous Ron Weasley of all others, friend of Harry Potter and that Hermione Granger girl whom Isobel still had sore feelings toward. For months now, Lavender would go on and on about Ron, about his hair, his smile, his this and his that, his rumpled robe and messy tie, his upturned nose when he was confused or _"with that Granger girl"_ Lavender would say. Melanie and Isobel had been nice enough to nod and just smile and endure Lavender's school girl crush—since Ginny immediately dipped and left the minute Lavender would start up—but now, the girls saw that this infatuation—since that's what they refused it to be otherwise—was becoming _quite_ an issue.

It was vexatious.

It was irksome and wearying. And Isobel and Melanie were just too _nice_ to say anything.

"That reminds me," Isobel began and the two glared at a pair of Hufflepuff boys that gave them an evil eye as they passed, "have you seen Ginny?" She's been out studying lately and hasn't spent as much time with her friends as she wished. When receiving a head shake from Melanie, she added, "I heard that something's happened between her and Dean."

"They're together?" The brunette was completely oblivious to things such as gossip and relationships unless directly told. Ironically, most of that which went over her head involved those closest to her.

Isobel shook her head. "Nevermind."

The brunette snapped her fingers. "Speaking of boyfriends," that sneaky grin appeared on her face again, the same one when Isobel received that letter in DADA class. "How's you and _Mister_ _Dreamy_?"

"He's not at all dreamy!" Isobel scoffed.

"And you also said didn't like cauldron cakes either. And that butterbeer was nasty and that one time potions class was just _too hard_ ," she whined the last part. Melanie brought back a few of the many times Isobel put on a face, lying. "I'm sure his is; you're just not saying it."

"I'm serious…" she lied.

"Mmhm."

It's been weeks since Isobel ran into Theo, and today, she and Melanie were here for no particular reason but to waste time. They had planned to come with Lavender but that obviously changed when her _obsession_ started up again. The remaining pair of Gryffindor girls had some extra time now and, remembering the flower Theo spoke about, Isobel suggested going to the library. She didn't expect to find the book, and the library served as a diversion anyway when the suggestion blurted from her without warning when they passed by The Golden Trio earlier. And to avoid the googely eyes from Lavender and the panic rising in Isobel's throat, the library tumbled from her lips as a place to go search for Ginny or Dean. All wanted an update on the situation, anyway and no one questioned her.

No one really questioned her anymore… And she was liking this freedom.

"Cauldron cakes are a different situation," came her poor excuse.

" _Sure_ they are." Melanie smiled.

After Isobel's talk with Theo, she hadn't been back at Snape's since, knowing her brother would be roaming the dungeons walkways more frequently, just at the risk of _catching_ her in the act. She hoped that Snape had caught on to that by now and wouldn't pester her.

The she and Melanie looked down each aisle as they passed, hoping to see a familiar face and Isobel still trying—and failing—to convince that her admirer wasn't as dreamy as Melanie exaggerated him to be.

"He's nothing special. He's just the same as you and me." She didn't realize she trailed off.

Melanie gave her a look.

"I mean, yes, he's funny, and…and _tall_ —-but that's not the point!"

Melanie was going to ask, "then what is?" but Isobel continued.

"He's a nice guy—maybe not the best in dueling since I kicked his butt second year—but that's—-!" She cut off, catching a familiar figure clambering onto a desk near the center of the aisle. "Mandy!"

Melanie's dark hair whipped back and forth between the girls as Isobel took off for her friend, and she watched her envelop the Ravenclaw in a hug. Unknowing to Melanie, Isobel was more than grateful for this diversion.

Mandy reeled backwards on her knees, letting out a loud squeak at momentarily losing her balance as Isobel rushed over and wrapped her arms around Mandy's waist. Mandy steadied herself on the tabletop before hitting her head on the bookshelf.

"You act like you haven't seen me all week," she gasped. "We see each other every day at breakfast." Her hand patted the girl's thick hair, a saturnine against the Gryffindor's single café au lait colored plait.

Melanie came up, waving with a half smile.

Isobel rested her chin on her friend's robe, it digging into Mandy's blue and silver tie as she spoke, and looking up innocently. "Have you seen Ginny? Ginny Weasley?"

Mandy balanced herself with a hand beside her on the mahogany desk top. "Ginny?"

Melanie nodded. She stood beside the desk now. "We've been looking for her. We think she's run away from us." She told that they had been told that Ginny had been seen wondering into the library.

Isobel knew that as soon as they found the redhead, Melanie was going to take Ginny by the arm and pester her about Dean. Her friends loved to talk and gossip since those were the things floating around Hogwarts the most—because, really, what else is there besides _school_?—but they only spoke in good nature. Unlike Lavender, who would go on about it obnoxiously, no matter how instigating it was.

In answering Melanie, Mandy silently pointed a single finger to the nearest of the library's numbers center aisleway and called, "Ginny!" The ginger appeared seconds after, carrying an armful of textbooks. And on cue, Melanie hurried over, clasping her fellow Gryffindor by the shoulders with a wide smile that showed off her slightly misaligned top teeth. Isobel slinked past, thanking Mandy, and approaching the two where she had to remind Melanie of the volume of her voice.

"Where've you been!? We've been trying to get a hold of you for _weeks_ and you always either sneak out early or come back late at night. And you now me and Isobel are never awake to see you." Melanie threw an arm in the aforementioned's direction. "And I've tried to ask _her_ but she _sleeps like a rock_!"

Isobel's jaw dropped. "That's not true!"

"Remember that time I asked you to watch my cat while I went to shower?" Melanie's brow raised.

Isobel's jaw snapped shut. "A-and—-I was taking a nap! You know I was already tired! A-a-and I had stayed up late the night before—you know that!"

Ginny crossed her arms over the books she was holding, eyeing the two.

"Besides the point," Melanie waved off, turning back to Ginny. "Are _you_ ok? Because you've seemed rather tense and calm lately."

Ginny's brows knotted together. "Calm? What do you mean _calm_?"

"That something's really eating at you," Isobel replied with an even tone.

"And you're tense all the time."

Ginny shook her head and her brows arched as she frowned. "No I'm not. If you should ask anyone if their tense, you should ask _Isobel_." Her bright eyes pointed and the brunette's darted.

"Me? Why me?" She could feel herself starting to panic, her eyes darting around.

"Because you're always off _studying_ ," Ginny explained in a-matter-of-factly. "You're starting to study as much as Hermione…"

Now, Isobel's jaw dropped in offense. "I do not! I don't—-" She cut off, smoothly slipping into another excuse of, "I just want to be prepared for our exams we have next year, you know. Just because I like to be prepared and not fail doesn't mean I'm like…like _Granger_."

Ginny chuckled, turning. "Sure."

"I'm being serious!"

"I know you are; that's why I think it's so cute!"

"Cute?!"

"Yes. You're such a terrible liar," Ginny smiled, hair swooshing as she turned and began back down the aisle way.

Melanie and Mandy followed.

This time, Isobel held her tongue, shocked of what to say and not wanting to give anything to support her statement. Partially, Isobel wasn't surprised of this innocent claim from her friend since most of the school thought the same—that she couldn't lie, that she could do no wrong, that any form of something above the rating of PG13 should be censored for her.

Isobel sucked her bottom lip.

Ginny chuckled. "You guys tracked me down because you missed me that much?" she smirked, joking.

"Actually, it's because Lav was being such a pain."

Isobel lightly smacked Melanie's arm. That was their friend after all!

"What? She was! You agree too!"

"Yeah," Isobel hissed, "but I wouldn't _say_ it!"

Their conversation became mutual then as , rambling about unimportant subjects and Melanie began again about Isobel's admirer. And the girl huffed, falling back behind her friends as Mandy listened with a shy half-smile.

Isobel crossed her arms and her mouth opened to call Melanie out again, to claim that she had no admirer, when she was abruptly pulled by her arm. Luckily, she had fallen in the back of the group and none had seen the face of the boy that peeked out from around the bookshelf before grabbing her elbow.

He had grabbed her to hide in the bookshelves. He was tall, taller than she by almost a head, a strong, round jaw and when Isobel looked him in the eyes, her heart stuttered. This surprised even her and words were difficult to come then.

She allowed herself to be tugged around the corner and out of sight, and come face to face with the boy she hadn't had a chance to see in almost a month. She immediately felt her ears heat up when he gave her upper arms a light squeeze. Out of habit, her eyes searched to make sure the area was clear before letting herself relax in front of him. When she looked back up again, he was obvious more nervous than she.

"What happened? I…d-did you…did you…?" His head was down and embarrassed. She found this cute and a smile started stretching her lips.

"Your letter?" She started to smile, ignoring the blush creeping up her cheeks as well. "Yes, I got it."

His eyes remained cast down on the dirt smudge on his shoe that he forgot to wash off and scuffed his toe against the floor. "Well d-did you like it…?" His voice trailed off with each word, it already low to begin with.

There weren't anyone else in the aisles nearby and it provided the perfect location to talk, according to her. He had just done it spontaneously and didn't understand her wariness, but she watched his hair swoop in his eye as he brought his head back up.

Now, the smile graced Isobel's face full-fledged. "It was very…poetic and…" She searched for the right word. "…Eloquent." Her nose crinkled. That sounded too pompous—it was far too cheesy, right? She chuckled. "Ginny admired your penmanship."

His eyes bugged. " _She saw it_!?" he squeaked. His mind began racing. Maybe he shouldn't have given it to her; maybe he should have done it himself or gotten someone else to do it!

"No. She only saw it through the parchment."

Oh.

He exhaled a heavy sigh and Isobel wrapped her arms around his neck. He wasn't much taller than her but she still had to stand on tiptoe a bit.

"I liked it," she whispered as if fearing others would overhear.

She felt his arms encircle her waist and leaned her weight against him. His eyes narrowed down at her as he asked: "Where've you been? We haven't seen each other in a _month_ —a little over a month now I think—and I can never get a hold of you—-"

Isobel smiled again, seeing his face beginning to redden. She spoke his name and then in a tisk, "you know I've been busy."

He pouted. "With what?"

Isobel's pulse sped for a second. "With lessons, of course." It was only partially a lie, though. "I'm surprised you aren't either," she joked, giving him a playful thump on the shoulder.

He chuckled, loosening his grip on her and for the first time in a long, long while, she felt a light, passably ebullient emotion burst in her chest like a star, and she found that she liked the ring of his laughter.

Isobel rested her hands back at her sides, leaning off of him and her gaze glanced toward the end of the aisle at the right, fearing that any moment her friends would return at her absence. She didn't know what she would say if they saw her in this position, leaned up against and in the arms of a boy. She was moral, delicate, and guiltless.

Well she was definitely guiltless.

She couldn't let anyone see.

But maybe delicate—that's why this boy constantly held her with an unassertive hand—and so much, so many times she's wanted to scream that she wasn't a glass doll. With _this_ boy, his palms were always careful, cautious, and he never held her with courage. _This_ boy, with always hopeful eyes and hair that swooped in his eyes when he would bashfully dip his chin, who was partially imprudent and very brusque—he wasn't as confident or vehement as she was used to. He was kind and just, but his hands weren't long and nibble and biceps vigorous, and he wasn't disenthralled with her like when—

This boy wasn't _him_. This one was too scared and she was sure to hide the love marks behind her robes and pantyhose and long socks when required.

Isobel was guileful and guiltless.

She swears she's crazy.

The boy in front of her, a different one than who she tangles in bed with, asked why she continued glancing away and she answered about her friends, that they were here in search of some books, for lessons.

"Maybe you should do a little more lessons and hang out with _me_." He encircled her waist again, planting his nose near her clavicle.

Isobel felt her pulse flutter and wondered if he felt it as well.

She felt him take a whiff of her scent and the tickle of him made her squirm. She struggled to stifle her giggles but he held strong and then began tickling her sides—a sure-fire way that made her melt with him. It was his own trick that he had no idea worked on her.

Isobel told him to stop and he wouldn't listen, claiming that his hands couldn't because they missed her so. His nose dipped under her ear and her fingers curled around the collar of his robe when his hot, fervorous breath splashed across the shell of her ear and neared closer and closer.

She hoped that no one would pass by and see—she dreaded that it would be her brother, or Dean, or if anyone else in her house were to see. She knew that it wouldn't look well, of her like this in the with any boy, especially with talks of erotic misadventures floating around her common room, and after that little outburst with Hermione and Harry—

Isobel lifted a hand over her mouth to hush her giggles and leaned to the side, his fingers inching up her sides, and accidentally through it all, Isobel let out a screech. Immediately, the boy pulled her close and she fell onto his shirt, hers heaving from exertion. Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes and her laughter burned her sides, and the vibration of his voice rumbling straight through her was so palliative. She found closeness comforting and didn't hurry to stand up straight and savored this zero proximity and partnered isolation, knowing that it was a matter of time until someone came searching for the source of her scream.

Isobel let out a few remaining chuckles. His chin nudged her and as she looked up, he saw her face was rosy. And as her head tilted back to stare back up into his eyes, her grip curled around the smooth black cloth of his house robe and she saw his face nearing slowly. Her breath caught in her throat and she stiffened.

 _Harry leaned back abruptly, barking a dry laugh. "You don't even love him!"_

The memory flashed in her mind and her decision changed. Isobel began wondering if what her housemate had claimed was even true— _was it even true?_

Her certainty wavered and when he whispered for permission so close to her, lips practically brushing against hers, she felt herself hesitate.

They weren't together, both knew that and though he respected her decision to not become an official couple yet, it didn't stop his advances or expressions of endearment. In fact, this incident, of the way both of them were so close and yet still unspoken and un-enamored, was not unusual in the slightest. In fact, she hasn't kissed him since near the end of fourth year.

Isobel felt her resistance and decision falter and she hesitated. She felt him stiffen just the slightest in front of her and she became worried. The pleading look in his eyes changed and became hard, and Isobel panicked that her face might have given something away. And when he opened his mouth, her heart started racing because this wasn't the first time and increasingly—perhaps—he's begun reading her better than she could him and this wasn't the first time she's lied before to slip away and back into her own world and she worried that—

"Isobel...is there someone else—-"

A voice calling her name in a strained shout broke them apart and she detangled as if just being caught by a professor. It was Ginny and the others calling for her.

"They're coming!" Isobel announced in a panicked hush.

"Who?" His brows knitted in a way that wasn't his usual calm.

"My friends." She turned to him.

"So?"

Isobel stifled the heavy sigh she almost made audible. "I'll talk to you later, ok? There's…there's this thing going around that will make anyone look suspicious if seen with someone else, if seen in questionably suggestive positions. It has to do with that thing going around that had happened in the Gryffindor common room..." Her face turned away, suddenly feeling quite shy.

"So?" he pressed. "So what your friends see us together?" He took her hands in his and she saw that the hopeful look was back in his eye.

She told him that she couldn't, reminding him once again "we aren't together," and watched that glimmer dim in his eyes. She didn't like doing this, putting him down again and again, saying "not yet" and that "maybe, maybe I need more time for this"—but he should remember this himself—she knew he did, he just always ignored her. Isobel took her hands from his just in time to see Ginny, Mandy, and Melanie appear.

Ginny shot a knife sharp scowl to the boy in the robes slumped against the bookshelves. Her gaze darted to Isobel who was standing with arms wrapped around her waist. "Where'd _you_ go?"

Melanie and Mandy looked at the boy with equal confusion, then Melanie's brow quirked with a inscrutable look. And Isobel put on a face and smiled so innocently.

"I dropped something. But I found it now. He helped me," she lied through her teeth, swinging an arm in the direction of the silent, tall other boy.

But the girls didn't seem fazed. Isobel made sure to not look back at him the group of girls rejoined and left. To be honest, Isobel didn't know the next time she was going to see him, but the girls quickly flowed back into nonchalant chatter and the boy soon faded into the back of her mind. She couldn't dwell on him, not for too long, and especially not around Melanie. That girl will talk and talk and accidentally slip out a secret.

Actually, Isobel couldn't tell any of them.

"Sooo~" Melanie began slowly, suggesting, and giving Ginny a casual elbow to the arm. "Let's talk about _Dean_."

Mandy had fallen to the third's side, and Ginny and Melanie were now the two to the right of them. Mandy leaned to Isobel's ear. "Who's Dean?"

"Remember that guy who was with us that one time? He's a friend of ours; Dean Thomas."

Mandy's lips parted, familiar now.

Ginny looked suspiciously from Melanie to Isobel. Her brows were brought together again and she kept the books close to her chest, looking a bit defensive and bristling. "What's with _Dean_?"

"Oh nothing..." Melanie smiled.

"He ran into us some time ago," Isobel revealed bluntly and with a shrug. "It's nothing big."

Still with a suspicious look, Ginny allowed Melanie to guide them further into the library to an empty shelf of books with less ears to overhear. Mandy hurried along to remain at their sides.

When they were alone, Ginny turned around. "What did he say then?" she asked almost in a sigh and Isobel became concerned.

Melanie stepped back also. Her black hair was pulled back by a purple headband and Ginny's was in a low ponytail. Mandy sat in a lone chair and Isobel inched to her side.

Melanie hesitated whether to continue. "He came to us wanting to talk to you. He sounded upset. What happened?"

Isobel could tell that the ginger didn't particularly favor this topic and was growing irritated by the second.

Ginny's look was unkind and she turned it to Isobel. Isobel told that they were just wanting to see what was wrong, if it was their relationship or something the three of them could help with. Melanie added that Mandy could probably get some Ravenclaws together to help too, as more of a suggestion.

Ginny just huffed. "It's nothing," she lied and turned and begin walking back to the front of the library.

The three weren't eager to follow but all did, eventually, regardless.

"If it's nothing then why're you running away? Ginny! We're only trying to help!"

The ginger whirled around, ponytail flying. "Look!" Her tone was harsh but she quickly calmed it down. "I just need some time, guys. …Alright?"

No one followed her after that as she exited the library. Isobel exchanged a stunned look with Mandy. Melanie wore a wounded expression and didn't know what to do and almost too ashamed to face the other two. Sometimes, Melanie can be a little _too_ straightforward.

* * *

 ** _A/N: So this ended up becoming way longer than I anticipated. I'm currently getting reeady for the holidays and finishing up the last of my classes. For the next chapter I do plan to have more interactions (and if theres any specific ones you want to see, please tell me). I plan to have more Hermione soon where she has an "interesting" run-in with another student. Anything specific you want to happen with Dean and Ginny feel free to say._**


	9. Talk A Good Game

**[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]**

* * *

Hermione looked up from that morning's newspaper, her usual condescending sharp stare twisted into a scowl of disapproval. "Slow down, Ron, or you're going to choke."

The boy, the redhead mentioned, glanced up from his plate with cheeks full of half of the sausage that was skewered on his fork in front of him, and he glared that couldn't exactly rival hers, but was of his own disdain, and he sneered, "I don't criticize _you_ when you eat. And _you_ eat like a _pigeon_." On his golden platter was an amount of food Hermione would call worrisome. She actually had just spoken so minutes ago.

She sucked in a breath, her nose flaring and Harry knew that she was straddling the fence of speaking a comeback or holding her tongue. He continued on his cereal, watching his two friends from the corners of his eyes.

"I do not eat like a _pigeon_! I eat a proper amount—-"

"A proper amount for a _pigeon_."

Hermione's nostrils flared again seeing the roll of Ron's eyes. "You _do_ know that there is such a thing as overeating? There's a certain serving amount that someone over—-"

"Don't have to be technical with everything, 'Mione."

The brunette's neck snapped to the boy beside her, her eyes widening. "You're supposed to be on my side!" she hissed.

Harry shrugged, eyes remaining on his breakfast.

"You're _agreeing_ with him!?"

Harry never looked up and continued on his food. "I'm not on anyone's side; I'm just saying what's right," he slurred between mouthfuls.

Hermione's lip poked out but she didn't continue, recognizing her battles. Ron, on the other hand, had been watching this time and waited until the girl had gone quiet again, ruffled the newspaper in her hands and held it in barricading her table space. The two boys then went silent and the morning carried on normally for the next ten-plus minutes until Harry slurped the milk from his spoon. Eventually, Ron turned to his third friend; Hermione turned the page of her copy of The Daily Prophet and continued to ignore him.

Ron reached and tapped Harry's elbow, almost making the other spill a spoonful of milk. "What's with you, mate? You've been all out of it lately." His voice was almost in a whisper, but that was never fully accomplishable with Ron.

Harry just shook his head and lied, "nothing," took another spoonful, and mused over the embroidery in the spoon's handle.

Hermione flicked her wrists, straightening out the newspaper in her hands. "Probably still thinking about those _knickers_ ," came the comment under her breath.

It was still a well liked piece of gossip and even a month since the incident, it was still brought up. Hermione hasn't been the most _proud_ of the incident, but she seemed to enjoy pointing out her friend's oh-so _-"heroic"_ gesture back then and _"how typical of you, Harry_. _"_ And it was known that Hermione was still quite bitter about it and would follow Isobel a little too long with her eyes, but the girl never noticed and neither did anyone else and Hermione was free to be as vindictive and aggrieved about it as she please because she didn't hurt anybody and— _it's just a bloody pair of knickers!_ But she and Ron didn't expect the metallic spoon to fall and clatter loudly to the metal bowl and the two jumped a little.

"For the _last time_ , leave it _be_ , Hermione." Harry's tone didn't rise but he wasn't going to have this conversation again, and both she and Ron were familiar with the rumpled brows and demeanor Harry and it wasn't a pretty sight.

Hermione folded the newspaper, her eyes narrowing, and she formed her words carefully. "Did McGonagall ever get them, by the way? Because from what I heard, something had happened to them sometime right after you left."

Harry didn't realize he was glaring— _w_ _as she accusing him?_ Instead of lashing out like his original first response, he kept his mouth closed. Ron watched his friend take another bite of cereal, the tension obvious and the two watching each other for signs of betrayal. Ron washed down his foot with a quick swig of his juice.

Once Harry chewed, swallowed, downing the vile words ready on his tongue, he chocked out a mere "yes" and Hermione's eyes narrowed further.

"You sure?" She was pressing. "A lot of things have been floating around, you know. ...And something tells me that you might have a clue to who's they belong to."

Harry's glare diminished, eyes squinting in confusion. "What makes you think that?" Was she accusing _him_?

She shrugged, keeping a calm and unconcerned look, gaze finding the half eaten pastry on the platter at her left far more interesting. "You don't spend as much time with us like usual."

Harry's brows quirked and were brought together. "You mean _you_ haven't spent as much time with me and Ron. You've basically disappeared and gone to live in the library again, Hermione."

"I've just been studying for our OWLs that are coming up, _remember_?"

Harry did remember—how could he not with Umbridge as a teacher?—but it was even before he's started his extracurricular activities, Hermione was cramming for their tests. He's been off doing studying on his own…except for a handful of occasions… Lately he's been needing quiet time, just feeling overwhelmed frequently.

Now, it was Ron who had gone silent and watched the scene of a stare off that was suffocating with tension. Ron watched as Harry chewed another bite of his cereal and Hermione still matching his dirty look with a somewhat glare. The boy was lucky he was across the table and therefore wasn't in the direct line of fire. Also, because Ron was seated across the table, he was able to see the someone who caught his eye, a small hope to save him from this situation, and he anxiously raised his hand and chin as he called his sister with a full mouth. This had, luckily, extinguished Harry and Hermione's silent quarrel that was about to spark into something more catching and as Ginny approached, the redhead offered an appreciated distraction for him.

At first, the seventh Weasley sneered, but Ron saw one of the girls at her side, another Gryffindor with sleek, ebony hair to her shoulders, whispered to Ginny and seemed to snicker, and Ginny diverged her path toward her brother.

Ginny and her friends had been on their way to a seat further down the table, originally. By her side, was Melanie Stanmore and Isobel MacDougal, two younger years by one exactly, and Hermione's brows raised at catching sight of the latter and her faltered steps. Neither Hermione nor Harry spoke an objection when Ron waved the three girls over and immediately began talking with his sister of something about their mother and a responsibility coming up.

Melanie squeezed into the empty space on the other side of Harry and opposite from Hermione. Ginny was on Hermione's left and Ron was across from them, and Isobel took Ginny's left.

Isobel looked around the table, feeling out of place and intrusive.

Hermione ignored them all and in fact _grimaced_ , Isobel saw.

Isobel really didn't want to be here.

Melanie rested her cheek on her elevated fist, her arm bent at the elbow and she kept _staring_ at Harry with a goofy, knowing grin. Whenever she wore that grin, it was never good. "Sooo~ Harry, Harry..." she began, speaking slowly, purposely, alluding. "How's the scar?"

Like most others, she has heard of Umbridge and how the boy had gotten the scar on the back of his hand, and it quite intrigued the girl. She was also so damn nosey.

Harry, however, ignored her, reaching to add more cereal to the remainder of his milk.

That small smirk of hers didn't disappear or reduce and Harry counted the seconds until she finally spoke again. But that weird, quirking smirk remained and it bothered him, so he finally gave a sigh.

"It's fine," he spoke in a grunt, choosing to refill his mouth rather than continue to converse.

On the other side of Ginny, Isobel fidgeted her hands uncomfortably, knees beginning to bounce. She wanted to leave; she had to get to a further proximity. Her back was leaned against the edge of the table and her heart was racing and she didn't like it when it was racing—other than under _certain_ situations—and her head was just _filling_ with probabilities and _anxiety_.

"Why the long face?" Melanie tilted her head to the side a bit, sounding genuinely concerned.

She watched him and Harry got a sudden urge to scoot away from her, catching her gaze that refusing to diverge.

"You look like a guy with a broken heart; a man in love," she finally spoke. Melanie saw the spoon in his hand hesitate the slightest bit to his mouth which made a wide smile break across hers. She gasped, "you are!?" It was in a hush but still Ginny had glanced over, overhearing. "Oh my gosh!"

His spoon clattered into his bowl and Harry shushed her. "No, I'm not! Why does everyone seem to assume that I'm a part of some… _soddy mushy situation_?"

"Are you not?" She smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "Wouldn't you expect so after seeing someone give _that_ reaction?" Her gaze appointed to the golden spoon that had fallen to the bowl of milk and cereal.

Harry grumbled. She was right at least, but…

"That's absurd. You can't claiming to know something like that just by _staring_ at someone."

"Of course it's not. But I've seen that look before." She then lowered her tone. "Isobel wears the same one quite often."

Harry almost blurted out loud but held his tongue in the last second.

Melanie returned to a normal two-people conversation level. "People's eyes can tell more than their words can, if you just look. Haven't you done it before?"

"Actually, _no_. I don't go around _staring_ into people's faces like a mad person. Especially when they're eating because that _can_ be considered _rude_ whether you might be aware of it or not."

Melanie sat back and gave a sour apology with pouted lips and slumped shoulders.

Hermione glanced up from her paper, hearing a sarcastic " _really_ , Ron?" from Ginny.

On the Ginny's other side, Isobel was becoming restless. Maybe the tension she felt was just her but with each minute that passed, she concluded that she couldn't sit here, not any longer. She feared that Hermione would blurt something absurd again and Harry wouldn't be able to defend her this time. Ginny either.

Her knee bounced and she was twisting the ends of her robe's sleeve, and brain overflowing with dread. She knew that Ginny and Melanie wanted her to stay near due to others of their house that wanted to point fingers since _she was the girl who spoke up,_ but as three turned into five and five minutes turned into ten, she knew that it was only a matter of time until _something_ happened. And really, it was just her own fears that made her so anxious.

"I don't know, Ron, but it's _crazy_. To do something like that—I can't even—"

And Isobel's mind was making her twist sentences in conversation.

This was too much, and she was worrying.

She needed time alone.

Taking a deep breath, she stood from the table. It had been unintentionally abrupt and all eyes from the group turned to her and she felt the sinking feeling of embarrassment.

"G-Ginny?" Her voice trembled knowing Hermione's judging stare was watching her. "I…I'm going off. There's something I forgot I needed to go ask Madam Pomfrey before o-our next test." She punctuated her lie with yet another innocent looking smile.

Ginny glanced at Hermione and Ron near her.

And still, no one saw through her lie.

Harry was the only one with a scrutinizing _"are you serious"_ squint to his eyes. Hermione, caring absolutely none, turned back to her paper, noisily turning the page and remaining silent. Ron looked to his sister who only shrugged in answer.

"You wanna meet up later then? We should have enough time to study today if I don't have to practice for too long today, if you and Melanie want?"

Isobel looked to her third friend's approval and after Melanie's thumbs up, Isobel nodded her agreement and agreement.

Everyone returned to their activities and conversation and Isobel stifled a sigh of relief. Her legs were antsy and she felt like she was going to sprint down the aisle and out The Great Hall any minute. Her eyes focused in a sort of tunnel vision as her speed increased, and she didn't see her friend approaching and only noticed Dean when he stood as she hurried past, almost colliding into her and she paused only for a millisecond. She knew he was going to ask about Ginny so she gave a quick "I don't know Dean, not right now," plowing forward and _now_ running out The Great Hall.

Sometimes Isobel surprised herself with how much she lied now.

And she had no idea how quickly she hurried out after that. She practically ran, her robe billowing behind her and the chilling wind nipped at her nose as she ran through an open corridor. The cool air helped clear mind somewhat but she didn't stop running as she climbed the moving staircases.

Isobel dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. She was just overreacting— _why was she overreacting?!_

She sighed heavily. Her heart was in her throat, ready to leap out—and she had been so close, so close for Hermione to open her mouth and Harry to give her a hurtful glare and Ginny to turn the other way and Isobel's life to be over.

She was overreacting—why?

 _She knew why._

She felt her body beginning to shake and took a steadying breath as the staircase approached the next floor.

Back in The Great Hall, several minutes have already gone by and Melanie had gone quiet now. It's been a few minutes and the frightened look in Isobel's eyes had been imprinted in Harry's conscious. Ginny was loosing interest in Ron's rambling and this girl beside him was just nibbling on a piece of toast like a mouse.

Harry was the second one to stand from the table, leaving the rest of his meal and telling that he had forgotten something for class back in his bedroom. Again, everyone only shrugged but it was Ginny this time who gave an inscrutable quirk of her brow and gave a shake of her head.

 ** _. . . ._**

The rail of the balcony is a sort of steel that has absorbed the surrounding autumn air and Isobel wrapped her arms around herself, the chilling air filling her lungs and exhaling anxiety. When she would be found, her robe would be pulled tightly around her and her cheeks a tinge of pink.

Her breathing had regulated now but her mind was still going the speed of a train.

When she was younger, her brother used to sing a melody before bed that he claimed was the same that their mother had sung to them once. That had been when Isobel was very little and before he had "disappeared" to where she later found out had been to Hogwarts. Now, she couldn't remember the words to the song but she could recount the melody and hummed it to herself in times of worry, sleep, or stress. And on the balcony of the high floor of the castle, she found the song seeping past her lips once more.

Sometimes, she wondered what their parents looked like and what they were like. She knew that she supposedly looked like her mother—except her hair, of course—and she and Theo had gotten a few more dazzling traits from her, but Isobel didn't know _what_. No one seemed to want to tell her _anything_ and it infuriated her.

But that wasn't important now.

Now, her body still held a slight tremor as if an angry feeling was still crawling through her system; her brain was still wracking with outrageous imaginary scenarios of Hermione, Ginny, Melanie, and the boy she had caught up with in the library.

She had forgotten about the boy she had caught up with in the library, the writer of her love letter, and she felt rather ashamed. She didn't _forget_ about him, but with Hermione having been so close, anxious fear had taken hold and emptied her brain.

Hermione Granger. _Hermione, that bigmouthed, bossy, insensitive_ —

Isobel was glad they weren't friends because what had happened back in the common room would surely have been afar more dramatic and Isobel wouldn't have held her tongue so.

Isobel brought her hands together, twining her fingers and increased her voice as the melody thrummed from her lips. She had always been told she had a nice voice but was never brave enough to show it...

Isobel purposely chose this high balcony because of the quiet isolation it brought. So, it wasn't a strain to make out the echoing shuffled footsteps approaching down the hall, and she continued humming even after the footsteps scuffed against the cold floor near the doorway. She took her time to push off from the railing and her finger wound around a stray curl as she turned around to her audience and her humming stopped. A dry grin stretched across her face at the messy-haired boy stood dumbfounded and absolutely awestruck in the doorway.

His name was murmured from her lips like warm honey as she reeled on her heels. "What are you doing here so far up in the castle and _away_ from your _friends_?"

He couldn't tell if her words were spat in scorn or a tease, but wasn't important because to him, her long lashes hid bewitching eyes and his mesmerized mind made her features grander than they were. "I, I was…I was..." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, glancing for good measure. "I heard singing and…"

 _And it had captured him_ is what he was going to say, but of course, words escaped him. He looked back toward the brunette and gave a long sigh.

Isobel wrung her hands and she pointed with her chin towards him. "What's that?"

The boy's head cleared. He glanced behind again in complete oblivion before turning back to the girl gesturing with her finger for him to come closer. Obviously, and still dazed, he did so immediately.

Her finger turned, pointing at his waist. "Is that a map?" Without warning, she reached for the scroll-looking parchment sticking out from his pocket but he quickly stepped out of reach. Isobel's eyes looked up at him, her stance remaining for a moment.

"I-it's nothing." He walked backwards, shoving it deeper in his pocket and watched her with eager eyes as she slowly straightened her stance before him. The smoke-like overcast in his mind was ebbing now and he saw her eyes studying him, picking out that there was something rather _odd_ about him, something almost _different_. Her lips curved in a small pout.

Isobel was going to say an "oh, really?" but it was too early in the afternoon for more bickering and with this boy, he was supposed to be a stress _reliever_. Instead, her eyes questioned, and with another raise of her chin and eyebrow, asked, "what're you doing here?" She remained toe to toe with him as he backed away from her and toward the surrounding stone walls.

"I would ask _you_ the same thing. Risking classes isn't something a _good girl_ would be doing. Don't want to get your professors worrying about their _precious student,_ " he chided with his signature smug smirk again. His attitude was back; he was back to normal.

"Are you sure that yours wouldn't be worried about their boy _Gryffindor_?" She teased him, calling him _Mister_ and his his last name. "And _good girl_?" Isobel's eyes narrowed.

She knew that he was just egging her on and the remark was spoken before she realized. The familiar, snarky grin started growing on his face at watching her stomp closer. Isobel was pouting angrily and she she raised her chin in defiance. He liked the way she looked when she was angry.

"You _could_ get in trouble," he mused, feigning innocence. "But we both know that sweet little Isobel would _never dare_ , huh?"

She looked angry now, but not truly. "When have I ever been a—-a _good girl_?" As soon as she said that, she knew that his smartass would recall some incident in their younger years, when they all had been more innocent. She saw his mouth open as he was going to do just that, and she grabbed his tie, pulling his down to her. "Don't answer that."

He chuckled.

She glared.

"I don't see anyone who will particularly care," he murmured, tone challenging. "Do you?"

She paused.

"No," she whispered.

He grinned, and it isn't nice or comforting or even particularly happy...

And then he's leaning closer, and she—

"And no one's been caught— _yet_ , " she spoke tentatively slow, letting her words sink in.

That cocky grin of his grew. "And so what if we are?" Isobel noticed how he hesitated, biting raw his lower lip, and his gaze lowered to her lips for a moment. "I mean…since all the professors don't seem to know that such an _innocent_ girl can be such a _troublemaker_."

"Troublemaker?!" Her brows crinkle together and her vice tightened around his tie and again he _laughed_ and she could recount all too well the vibrato of that laugh shooting through her—

She steels herself once more. "You know good and well," she then said his name, it coming out rather harshly now, "that I am far from _good_ and _innocent_." Her eyes didn't waver from his this time. This caused more of the tension coursing between both of them.

"You know what?" His thick brows knitted together. "I don't quite believe that! Because lately you've seemed to be have softened, Isobel! …Maybe you should _remind_ me again... Show me how supposedly you're _not_ a good girl, then."

"Oh?" Isobel's brows raised in feigned astonishment.

That charming smirk was whipped from his face as she ordered "on your knees" and he obeyed seemingly without hesitation. Now, his thick brows were tangled in confusion and a hint of a smile tucked at her lips. And when she raised her right leg to his shoulder and her gaze hardened, he shifted.

"I can show you how _naughty_ I can be," she drawled. "And when I have you squirming all over…as I go up…" He watched with greedy eyes as her hands ran up the sides of her curves, her robe having fallen to her elbows now, and her white shirt had never done an exceptional job at hiding her sinuous build underneath. "…And down, going just the way you like it…" Her hips gave a little roll, a taunt that backfired when he exhaled a trembling, scorching breath that snaked under the ruffles of her skirt. "…And down, going just the way you like it…"

"That's such a…a dirty thing for a girl like you to say." He smirked, taking on a look of mock-shock.

Isobel loomed over him, knee bending at a beautiful and palatable angle above his ear. "Yes. And what are _you_ going to do about it?" She didn't expect much of a smartass answer, and if he did give one—

Instead, Isobel released a surprised yip when he suddenly grabbed her thigh and gave the inside a nip, her hands finding purchase in his hair.

"First," he nudged a cheek to her warm flesh, not seeing the blush spreading across her face at his tight grip, "I'd do this." She watched him leave a kiss on the side of her knee. He continued from her knee until he was at the start of her skirt. She watched with baited breath, that familiar coil tightening in her stomach. "…Until I reach the very top of your thighs...And then," she saw him put on that mischievous smile again, "I'd teach you a few _choice_ words in favor of that filthy mouth of yours." His eyes flickered upward to hers.

His vise was tight.

And her pulse was fast.

Isobel sucked in a breath, his name coming out shaky and broken. Her leg was released and fell back to the ground where she teetered. Her hazel eyes trained on him, he then stood.

"How do I know that you'd even go through with your promise? I need...Because you see…"

And his hand was digging into his side and her body automatically gravitated toward his. She slowly ran a finger down his chest, the heat of his gaze unmistakable. "I require much time and attention…and sometimes overtime."

He stepped toe to toe with her. "And you know I can give it to you."

She felt him leaning closer.

"I'll give you all the attention you want…" He kissed her throat. "Be as gentle like I've always been…" He kissed underneath her ear and her knees quivered.

She wanted to laugh at that last bit he said but knew his good intention. Besides, she couldn't exactly _form words_ well at this moment.

Isobel felt his knuckles caress her cheek and she wanted to close her eyes, lean into his touch—but that would only lead to a downward slope. She looked to the side instead.

"…Or however else." His voice was rasp and tarnished against her tongue.

Her lips grazed his as they spoke. "I know you will." She craned her neck back and away from him and she grinned evilly. Her hand found his tie again and, after taking a distancing step backwards, pulled him down to eye level. "Now, first thing's first…if you want me to be—all for you, anyway you want now, you have to show me that you can follow orders. So, you'll have to show me that _you_ can be a _good_ _boy_ ," she then spoke his last name, "by…"

She leaned up to his ear and whispered something that turned his grin lopsided and eager.

When she pulled away, her eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief and he wanted to scoop her up in his arms once more.

"You think you can do that? …Or do you have to get down on your knees again?"

He only continued giving that crooked smile that she loved so much.

One year, over a full year they've been together and have had this arrangement. And out of a full year they've done, four—eight times—twelve—a number of endeavors of they've reached the pinnacle of passion and they loved it, she loved it. And sometimes Isobel didn't know why she continued this, put up with this boy that made her scream and toes curl and _hot_ by a simple touch when there was another who would take her hand like she was the most precious thing on Earth. Why did she continued this whole charade—and every time when they were tangled together, she _remembered_. She loved this, she loved all this, the adrenaline, the closeness under the sheets, the tangling of limbs. It was some kind of comforting peace that came when she would stare back at this boy's bright jade eyes, even when her stomach was tying twisting knots and her brain muddled. There was something about these sessions spent alongside this boy with the missy dark hair that she couldn't get enough of and it—

She closed her eyes, letting out a soft hum.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I feel like this was pretty irrelevant now that I'm looking back over it. To be honest, I've been quite busy and felt like this story has gone too long without an update. I'm sorry to disappoint. I'll try to make it better next chapter._**


	10. Hard To Do

**[Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]**

* * *

"I want you."

Arms were flying and clothes were shedding as tongues were extending and the air around them feels swollen with vehemence and enlivening, and her brain is drowning, drowning, mental circuits shortening with a fizzle and a pop and then white noise because he's here—because he's here, she can't process, can't wrap her mind around over six months of bad decision-making culminating in such spectacular disaster—and with this boy, _him_ —god, _why_ —but he's easy and he's comforting and he's _familiar_ and he will _ruin_ _this for her_ , she can already tell, yes. And she will regret him—she will regret this—but she's crumbling under the weight of his mouth and she just… _gives_.

His hands are gliding over the swell of her hips, and they don't talk but breathe, gasp, and implore _"just a little bit_ — _yes there, right there!"_

The room they were in wasn't large and barely capacious for anything other than to serve as a broom closet, and given the urgency he had he stolen her away, he hadn't cared that it was one. And when she let out an enthusiastic mewl, becoming briefly flustered before he chuckled and reassured her, it remained a minimal concern in the back of her mind.

It's been three days since their involuntary meeting up on that open balcony and Isobel is being pressed into the stone wall, and when they pull away for a moment, dazed and sorely aroused, she pulled him down by his tie and nibbled, bit, _pulled_ on his bottom lip and she can tell that he's tender, swelling, and _ready_. And when he breathed a curt, vulgar remark, his words tasted of sugar, and self-destruction, and reliance on her tongue.

His lip is released with a small _pop!_ and she leaned her head back and a mischievous, impish smile graced her lips that captivated him once more. He let out a forced chuckle that sounded more of a grunt.

So much he _craved_ the taste of her, the feel of her nubile, plump lips against his as his tongue slithered in and kissed her with all his might. He yearned her touch and healing kiss and she knew that—

His breath shook, muddling with hers in their little distance.

—She knew that; thats why she made their one rule.

He looked at her—and he _knew_ that this was _just_ sex and of their agreement agreed—he knew that this would be nothing else but it, and still—

It was ludicrous, the thought.

He audibly swallowed.

Her eyes were pools of pellucid bronze and his hands ruffled the sides of her uniform—sometimes he was wary and a bit unsure even after all this time. So when she grabbed his hands and placed them on her ass, he did freeze up and jump slightly. She giggled and tightened her hold around him, and he doesn't let her go.

And there's something unsettling about all this, the way he's leaned into her, their tangle of arms and guttural voice that it making her shiver and making her stop when he spoke her name and she is pulling away, less than a fraction of an inch, until she sees that his hair is disarranged and his lips are bruised and his eyes are glazed. Her stomach dropped and her pulse is slowing down very, very slowly and the corkscrew-tensing approach to her pinnacle that is twisting, tightening down her spine and would soon want release.

Oh god she wanted him! She's wanted him so, _so_ badly!

And she doesn't care—she's done this a thousand times at most and she latched on to a section of pale flesh on his neck and began suckling there, teeth skimming, and she is swinging her hips, rhythmically pulsing against the thick protuberance below his belt and she earned a deep throated noise of desire. And when she mumbled that request again against his neck, for a moment he hesitated.

 _"I want you."_

He hesitated.

"Now. Right now," she keened with an embarrassing amount of eagerness.

He hesitated.

She stared, pleading.

He wanted to fuck her—

She pulled him closer.

Neither knew why he hesitated now—it wasn't like it was their first time, but these little _expeditions_ and _sessions_ had been going on for a _while_ now and yet he still looked down at her and ask, "yo-you sure?"

His initial intentions were a kiss—no matter how much she'd yell at him; he'd never do it though—and perhaps just time together. He didn't expect her to be so eager, but knowing Isobel, she could be…quite prurient.

In response to his unneeded question, she gave the most perturbed, concupiscent glare to date. He muttered some sort of surrender and she tangled her fingers in his disheveled hair, pressing her figure flush against his and she felt his restrain slipping, his fingers curving under the swell of her ass and scraping near her entrance.

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have come, now would I?" she breathed and raised a brow, voice raising.

"No, I guess no—-"

Her teeth tugged at his lip again and this time he growled throatily.

Hands roamed and robes were removed and school shirts were unbuttoned.

This was far from their first time. No, _that_ had been sometime last year, after that kiss shared in the common room before the fire a winter night. It had then been on the final day of class and he had surprised her out of nowhere, luckily when no one was around, snuck up behind her and kissed her. He had grabbed her face and kissed her _hard_ , right there in the middle of the hallway. He kissed her not unlike this was the last time they'd see each other. She had been more confused than surprised at the act and from what she _can_ remember, was that it had surely not been urging and needy and sloppy like their first time.

On the train ride home back that year, Isobel thought he must have been wanting to kiss around the time they had shared their very first in front of the fireplace. She had struggled to not let her fingers wonder when he had held her face int he hallway, not wanting questions, but now in this random secluded closet, there was no holding back, unlike then.

Isobel gave a little giggle against his lips at the sudden catch in his breath when her hands brushed against the tent in his pants, and stuck her thumbs in the top of his trousers, teasing him.

"I want you," she whispered breathlessly, noses grinding. Her heart was racing under his clouded look and she loved it. "Do you want me...?" Her hands scrabbled to undo his belt and his breath became shallow as she began palming his growing bulge, causing friction. She became breathless, needing, and his grip dug into her flesh.

He gasped a deep, shaking, "yes."

She smirked.

She wanted him and she was damn sure going to have him.

Inside the broom cupboard, there were a few steps that led around a very small corner that brooms and mops were propped along the wall. But for the majority of the room, the brooms remained hidden until coming to that small turn.

Eyes never straying, he guided her to the first of three of the stone steps and he sat, legs spread wide and hands resting on his knees. He gave a small pat on his thighs, indicating where he wanted her to be and she obliged in seconds. She didn't need to be instructed, almost automatically coming to stand with a leg on either side of him before he to grabbed her hips and brought her down to his lap.

Her eyes, quite wide from his advances already, watched him unbutton her shirt the rest of the way down and exposed her bra and stomach to the air. He then pulled her close by the small of her back to rest on top of him fully, the connection instant, and she was sure that he could feel her wet heat through her underwear and both let out strangled noises. By now, her hair was a bird's nest but much less than his was.

He wasn't usually this forward—he was placid and cordial and compromising. His hands still stalled and he didn't allow himself to get lost in the moment as quickly or fully as she did, and sometimes it was like he was _waiting_ , as if a ghost would barge in at any moment and expose the dirty deeds they had done.

But her shirt had been open and her bra was pushed up and out of the way, and he was undoing the fastenings of his pants, and her pulse sped. His fingers tugged her skirt up, bunching it around her waist and hooking a finger around the elastic band of her underwear. Again, he paused, releasing a light chuckle, and then she was exposed to the open air underneath her skirt. Her breath caught and she loved it, feeling his intense gaze eat up the sight of her exposed flesh, and there is a buzzing underneath her skin, a sort of burning and it felt like she— _they_ were the only ones here.

And when his hips ground against hers, she was _so close_ already. His moans vibrated through her chest, making her squeeze her legs around him tighter, to make her hold around him secure.

This alone—lying about restroom breaks, sneaking around—could get them in a lot of trouble already. And if it was true about what this new DADA teacher, Umbridge, was trying to do to Hogwarts, this definitely wasn't going to go along well if they were found out. That bubblegum woman was a liar and two-faced, Isobel could tell already. She _definitely was_ a bad person, but Isobel needed him. She needed him _right_ now.

Their robes were pooled on the stone behind them, shirts open and ties elsewhere. Their movements rough and urgent and he's pushing, pulling into and out and she had grabbed hold of his pleasurably wide shoulders in a fickle attempt to remain steady. His fingers danced across her heat and Isobel muffled her cries with his skin, his hold on her ass tightening and squeezing with each jolt.

She whimpered, hands drawing angry marks down his back and blubbering grunts and fragments of pleasure into his neck.

Isobel shivered as his hips moved in a continuous, deep rhythm and her legs began shaking on either side of him. He bit the lobe of her ear, earning a satisfying hiss and her muscles further contracting around him. And when he grabbed one of her breasts from underneath, she begged him. She was so swollen and so close and he'd never done something like this before.

His motions were deep and hit just the right spot that turned her to mush in his arms.

He weighed her breast in his hand before bringing it up to his heated breath. He saw Isobel squeeze her eyes closed, her head lolling backwards and her hips moving against his. Never in his life had done this act before, and when he brought her pert nipple to his panting mouth, Isobel covered hers in fear she'd be heard.

 ** _. . . ._**

It had been in the library when Draco saw her. Bushy haired and a rather discombobulated frown curving on her lips, she had been sitting alone and hunched over a large opened book. Her chestnut hair was in its usual frizz that was just barely held together by a clip in the back—but it wasn't as frizzy as it was naturally, as it was years ago when they were younger and just met, and Draco guessed that it was from whatever muggle products she used.

That familiar, bitter emotion had bubbled up his throat and the scowl returned to his face at the mere _sight_ of her back towards him was enough to set him off. As it simmered down to a manageable tingle, it was almost always replaced by one that he could only describe as _slightly bubbly_ , like the fuzziness from warm butterbeer or soda pop that spread across his skin.

Having been sent on an errand for Snape, Draco had hoped to be in and out the library quickly. Instead, he kept going straight ahead, avoiding the aisle he was meant to go down and crumpled the permission slip in his pocket. The scowl etched across his features and he cursed under his breath. He didn't need this, to deal with this, to see her _now_.

Granger. That damn Granger girl just _had_ to be here, didn't she? She always ruined _everything_ for him—her and her _big_ mouth, that _know-it-all_ , almost boastful persona, coarse and biting tongue with a personality to match, _large_ impossibly _brown_ eyes that always seemed to watch you wherever you stepped...

Draco grumbled and continued on his way past her aisle. Maybe if he waited it out, she would hopefully, eventually, finish up quickly and leave.

Instead, the boy slinked off down the next aisle, pulling a random book from the shelf to spy on the brunette when he heard a page turn and the hardcover close. He watched her stand and hover at the desk. Though, just as she was about to turn around, surely to catch him, he placed the book back in its place.

That had been _too_ close!

And his heart was racing.

 _What if she caught him!?_

This wasn't the first time he's run into Hermione Granger outside of the bickering and teasing distributed from their groups. He knew that Pansy liked to make fun of her, much like they all did to the rest of the loud Gryffindor house, but the way that Draco continued to see Hermione around ever corner, day in and day out, it was starting to go to his head.

Draco leaned against the shelf, biting his lip nervously. _What if she had seen him?_ He didn't think he could form an intelligent enough insult if she came around, eyes blazing and a curse ready on her tongue and wand out and the crinkle on her nose when she was irritated as her wand would have probably pressed to his jugular...

That book had made too much noise when he placed it back. Surely she must have heard it...

She'd be coming around here any moment!

But maybe she wouldn't do anything if he just went over there, picked out the book he intended to and then just left? Surely, she wouldn't do anything then besides give him that signature turn of her lip that haunted him whenever he left.

He should have done something by now...

If Pansy was here, she would have given such a loud, obnoxious sigh and roll of her eyes, snapping that he " _should just get up and do something right now instead of acting like a weasel!"_

And he would snap something right back, having formed such an embarrassed dislike of rodents from fourth year.

Draco banged his head back and against the wooden shelf, finally talking himself up to move, and with a grunt, stomped around the corner. Immediately, he was met by wide, suspecting, _unimaginably_ _brown_ eyes that were questioning, calculating, _accusing_.

Hermione had heard and seen the large book get put back on the shelf and knew someone had been spying on her. She had gathered her things, consciously rehearsing exactly how she was going to scold them, and instead came face to face with the most unlikely defendant.

Or maybe, it wouldn't have been that unlikely.

Draco merely dipped his head, averting his gaze and kept it to the floor. He spoke in a curt, grunted, "Granger."

Her nostrils already flaring, ready for confrontation, she answered with an equally mannered acknowledgement of "Malfoy." She watched him dip his head and walk past, entering the aisle she had just stepped out of. Her eyes trained on him as he looked up and down the shelves as he walked deeper into the long aisle. Finally, eventually, her voice broke the silence:

"…Were you _following_ me?"

When Draco whirled around, a cutting insult on his tongue, he was met by her narrow-eyed stare and crinkled brows.

Hermione had heard and seen that book placed back quickly and wanted to confront the person head on whoever was the timorous wuss that couldn't have the guts to come to her face and subject to being some sort of espionage. There was already enough going on with her grades, her friends, and trying to evade Umbridge just like everyone else; there were the personal issues of trying to get back on Harry's good side, and Ron—

Oh yeah, there was _Ron_.

Hermione had seen the those googly eyes Lavender Brown gave the redheaded and it honestly made Hermione quite uncomfortable, on the inside. It could be described as a fire, almost like anger, being ignited within her the increasing time she would seen Lavender snuggling up beside him. Though Hermione didn't know what it was exactly, but she didn't like it.

And then there was Draco.

The boy's bright eyes widened before narrowing themselves, like hers. Harshly, he barked out an, " _of course not_."

This time, Hermione didn't flinch at his tone—she had stopped doing that years ago. Instead, she stepped off to the side, not wanting to start a quarrel here. She leaned against one of the large wooden study desks and watched him retrieve a crumpled paper from his pocket and search the shelves aimlessly, hopelessly. Her arms folded, amused at him going back and forth, obviously lost, and him doing his best (and failing) to keep his back to her, failing to hide that he had no clue of where to go and his frustration that flared. Hermione barely stopped herself from revealing a full-fledged snicker.

"You have no idea what you're looking for, do you?" Though she hadn't smiled outwardly, it had traveled into her voice.

Draco refused to look at her. "Shut up, Granger," was his snappy comeback and her indicator that she should leave. This run-in wasn't going to be a civil one.

Before, Hermione had considered aiding him and to offer assistance to whatever book he was searching for. _Turn the other cheek_ was a phrase she couldn't count how many times she's heard from Ginny, and lately, she'd have thoughts to reconsider others—that is until Umbridge showed her devil horns.

Recently, Hermione's been considering this whenever she would run into this blonde boy. Many times, she's considered that _maybe_ it would be possible to attempt to start anew, and almost every time she was proven wrong.

Indeed, this seemed like such a far fetched idea—Hermione even suspected herself completely mental when it first passed in her thought process—but there were some times that he wasn't an overbearing, arrogant prat. Some days, though few, the two have had decent conversation. It was indeed very, very limited and had not occurred many times since she punched him in third year, but there were times when both could hold a civil conversation without going at each other. A few times a month, maybe—like two or three—back to back at study tables with neither one looking each other in the eye during the duration of the talk, or there was a polite bow of heads in passing. Once, he had asked her a question about the homework and after a pause to give a silent judging look, she helped him find the right page in the textbook and a few questions afterward.

But she never talked about it to others. Hermione could imagine very clearly the astonished and betrayed looks on all three of Harry, Ron, and Ginny. And so, she never told, never even hinted at it to anyone.

There was never anything _to_ tell.

Hermione glared daggers into his back as he turned back toward the shelves, glancing between them and the rumpled piece of parchment in his hands.

"Go swoon over your books and notes, unbearable toad-faced girl," he grunted, eyes on his parchment.

There was an audible intake of breath and Draco didn't look her way until the patting of her footsteps were well away. That's when he let out a breath he hadn't notice he had been holding.

Meanwhile, Hermione stomped to the front of the library to check out the rest of her books. She wasn't going to stay in here any longer when that emotionless git was within proximity.

She hoped he didn't find his book—or better yet, a pile of books fell on his feet.

The thump of her books down on the checkout counter wasn't meant to be so loud and echo, and Hermione didn't meet the glare of the librarian in return. The girl muttered a hasty apology, thanks, and shot out the library, still stomping.

A week ago, they had managed to have a civil greeting at breakfast...

It had already been hard to put up with his insensible words, and then she had thought that maybe he had grown a little more mature and a conscious only to be proven wrong. To think differently of someone like him after all this time wasn't easy either.

She had been crazy to think there could be anything other than this constant bickering.

 ** _. . . ._**

Isobel sat in one of the study rooms on the fourth floor. Here, it was quite crowded due to it being one of two in the entire castle with couches and sofas instead of long, wooden tables for studying.

The short brunette sat with a book open in her lap, legs outstretched to the footrest inches away, and nibbling on another cookie pulled from the stash she's snuck out from lunch. She wasn't keeping track, and will be disappointed to find that she only had two more left—the cookies were to keep her body active and distracted; if it had been a pen or pencil, the end would have been ruined by now. Because she just couldn't get this arithmetic question and it's been bothering her for the past hour.

She wanted to throw the book across the room.

Just as she was about to give up, the cushions shifted and another body plopped down beside her, disrupting her loathing and and disarranging her book and parchment in her lap, and she became agitated when a long arm slugged along the back of the sofa.

She looked over to give an appointed glare, froze, and considered this an exception.

Isobel brushed her hair behind her ear and stared at the boy who, lately, has made her feel like she was walking on air and made her tongue-tied. He was tall, dark, and the colors of his house went well with his complexion—and she felt her heart falter, spring into her throat. She wasn't sure if that was good or not.

It's been less time in-between their last meeting in the library, where he literally pulled her aside by the arm and crashed against his chest.

Now, in the study room, the boy looked over at her and tried to conceal the smile growing on his face, but failed. She looked down sheepishly.

And there was that flutter again inside her. She'd have to talk to someone about that.

"What's a pretty gal like you doing in a junk of a place like this with all these losers?"

She just giggled, words escaping her anyhow.

He smiled; his eyes drifted downward to her parchment.

"Vector?" he asked about the professor, noted about her homework. "God I hate her…"

Isobel's brows arched.

"Well not-not _hate_ her, but—-"

"But her homework is ridiculous," Isobel finished. "I agree." She had turned back to gaze absentmindedly at her things, unconsciously brushing away a non existing hair behind her ear again.

The boy smiled a little. "Yeah. Yeah…"

She could practically feel him watching her, staring at her, and she wondered if her face burning was a more negative sign.

"Is this about divination stuff?"

"No, arithmancy."

"Ah," he nodded, remembering, of course, but trying conversation. "One of those number chart things?"

She nodded, head still bowed.

He scooted closer, his arm slinging around her shoulders and she felt her stomach twist.

"We had that once," he continued, cooly. "Some kid pulled a sixteen, I think, and predicted that the world was going to be overrun with trolls, or something. I think he got detention because he hadn't done his homework." The boy beside her chuckled, and she was almost certain that it was the best sound she's ever heard.

He was tall, valiant, and brazen, and he was perfect— _almost_ —in her jejune, guileless eyes.

"Yeah, I hopefully won't be like that…" she muttered, too shy to speak too loudly.

The boy smiled, admiring the way her hair curled so perfectly. "You'll be fine, Isobel. You…you're nice—-y-you're kind, beautiful, and you're quite brilliant actually."

Her face exploded into crimson and she stared up at him with wide, protuberant eyes. Her mouth opened and she stumbled over his name but cut it short, it not coming out past the first syllable, and she bit her lip instead.

Never had he said anything like that before—and she'd always known that he liked her, but still—

Was this okay? Was this all going to be alright, because—

He looked away, yet she still caught the cherry tomato color of his ears. He had trimmed his dark hair and it no longer grazed his ears like last year.

"O-oh…" Isobel tapped the ends of her shoes repeatedly, nervously.

"Well…"

"Hm."

"…You _are_."

She blushed furiously. _Why was he being like this?_

"Uh…"

"Isobel?"

"Ok—-thanks, I guess, uh…"

"Are you okay?"

And suddenly he was leaning closer...

He reached out a finger. "Because you got a little something…" He pointed at the crumbs on her cheeks, inching cenimeters and itching to brush them away.

Isobel didn't notice, wiping at her face furiously, embarrassed. "Is it gone?" she asked, innocently.

And he tried not to appear crestfallen. "Yeah."

"What was it?" she asked. He told her and she immediately stammered out an apology.

He chuckled. "Why're you apologizing?"

Isobel slumped. "I don't know…sorry." She rubbed her cheeks again, still feeling the ghost of the cookie crumbs. "I mean…!"

The boy chuckled. He told her that she was cute and her face exploded into pink again and she was antsy.

"Ok. Say, whats this about again?" He took control, sliding flush against her side and pulled the textbook to sit semi-inside his lap.

"It-it's, uh, ok, I've been stuck, er, on this one question here." She pointed at a number chart copied from the professor's. "That's for…34, right?"

His eyes widened, and he looked over at her, and smirked. "No. I'm surprised! The clever Isobel actually misread a prophecy! I'm shocked!"

"Oh, hush up! I forgot— _once_!" she laughed, smacking him playfully.

He caught her gaze and he just…stared.

"May I just say…you have wonderful eyes…"

Her face heated and brows crinkled in slight confusion. She turned her gaze back to her page of parchment.

"I, uh…" She watched him lick his lips nervously from the corner of her eye, her gaze lingering a second too long. "I was wondering…" Then, to her surprise, he reached across her, grabbing one of the cookies she had stolen from lunch. "I was wondering if…" He twirled it in his hand once; she could hear the shake in his voice. "…If you're free anytime this week—-"

"I actually can't," she grimaced-smiled. She had extra lessons with Snape everyday this week to make up for what she missed—and yes, she had begun going back recently, her brother's patrolling of the dungeon halls withdrawn.

"Oh. Oh..."

She watched his gaze lower and her hands returned to her lap, falling from his hold.

He twiddled his hands.

She picked at a cuticle.

"But—-!" She turned, being a little louder than expected. "I-I should be free in, maybe, the week after…if you want?"

The boy who was over a foot taller than her and gave the cutest, hopeful smirk, to her. "Yeah…." He was almost as lost for words as she. "Yeah, sure. Uh, lunch, then, I guess?"

Isobel grinned. "Yeah, lunch."

It turned out that the week after, she would become preoccupied as well.

* * *

 ** _A/N: This was a Draco/Hermione bit I've wanted to write for some time now. (And if any of you like it or want more, give me some scenarios.) I plan for the next chapter to maybe be straight nsfw. Should I? Because I'm not feel very motivated..._**


	11. Overtime

**_A/N: I had an explicit sex scene to come before this but I decided to not post it. I don't know how I feel about it._**

 ** _[Disclaimer:_ _Harry Potter and its characters, settings and such belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Mistakes Like This" is owned by the band Prelow. I own nothing ]_**

* * *

Isobel's breath came out hard and labored, dark caramel curls strewn ridiculously and shambolic on the pillow. "That…was incredible…!"

They are so close, breathing into each others' mouths where they can still taste the vicious, raw fervor from mere moments ago, and she savors the stillness of the moment, the lack of friction, and overall euphoria—and his presence. She is on her stomach facing him and he's on his side, and he flashed a weak, little lopsided smile. And for a second, she feels her gut wrench in a sort of bittersweet knot.

That wasn't good.

The boy beside her watched her sit up quickly, eyes wide and the tired smile of his vanished. Isobel's arm darted, reaching over to the bedside table where her wand had surprisingly stayed and not been knocked over and clattered to the floor earlier, when both had had hooded gazes, white knuckles, and her legs bent at the knees, toes curled and hands reaching for the sheets as if for dear life, him rough and abrasive behind her and forcing the headboard to rub and tear away a thin line in the wallpaper...

She reached for her wand and before she could flick her wrist, ready to get dressed and leave before she does anything else she would regret, a hand touched her shoulder. He wanted to snicker at the mess her hair was, but composed himself at the last second.

"Don't leave. …Wait, wait...Give me...give me, like, ten minutes at least."

She hesitated initially and with a sigh, returned her wand back on his side-table and returned to laying on her stomach. The boy rolled back over onto his back, regaining his breathing. He glanced over and she looked so beautiful, and he sighed longingly.

Isobel folded her arms under her chin. She was just as tired as he was, and he knew it became routine to leave immediately, to leave little and no trace so that no one could know. That's how this has gone on for so long—privately and secretly, just like the words he never spoke, that maybe would have saved all this.

Isobel was watching a flock of birds from the window when he asked in a soft, hopeful voice: "Stay here..."

Her head snapped around to him, "no" quickly and ready on her tongue. But she saw his wide, bright eyes were begging and optimistic.

"Please?"

She looked off to the side, hesitating, debating.

The bed shifted as he turned back on his stomach to face her, short dark hair a bird's nest, like hers. "Look, not even a long time, ok; just for a few minutes."

She had shook her head, about to insist that they shouldn't, but he pleaded, eyes so large and once again Isobel sighed in defeat. She turned her head the opposite way back toward the window and didn't see his flashed look of triumph. Or how he was looking at her, eyes steady and going over every detail—the curve of her shoulders and where her waist dipped before vanishing under the sheets, every curl of hair out of place, the steady rise and fall of her breath—

She would have claimed that it was unnerving.

It was minutes that went by when he gathered enough courage to run his fingers down the dip in her spine. He had been afraid that she would turn and snap at him, like a hissing cat. Instead, she failed to suppress a shiver. He did it a second time, sliding back up to the tangle of curls bunched at her shoulders.

Her words came out in a moan, drawling out his name. "What are you doing?"

He was propped up on one arm. He ran his fingers back down her spine again to where her body disappeared beneath the blankets.

She moaned again, "don't do that."

His feathery touch drifted back up to her shoulders for the last time and she let out a relieved sigh.

Isobel slowly rose by her hands, the bed dipping under her weight. Her arms shook but she was pulled back before she collapsed, his arm wrapping around her waist and flipped her over onto her back.

Her hands flew up. "No kissing," she only stated, heart racing in fear that he wouldn't listen.

"Aww, none?" She glared back and he stopped his joking. "Well can…can we just, like…like, lay here—that's all I want."

"That was enough and I have to go—-"

"Belll~" he whined.

She thought, and eventually tossed onto her side, letting him pull her into the bend of his body. Her knees bent slightly to her chest and she kept almost completely still, a cold stone setting in her stomach. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his chin nuzzled in the crook of her neck, her curls tickling his cheeks.

Sunlight was filtering through and she raised her hand absentmindedly to the light, and from behind, he squinted at it shining in his face.

Why— _fucking_ _him_ —out of every other person in this godforsaken world, why did she have to end up with him?! ...But she love the way his hands, so nimble and slim, worked; the rush and flutter in her chest his presence brought; and the compulsory tether formed when he stared her in the eyes, like he knew every part of her, everything detail about her even though she's never spoken more than her name and favorite color.

Isobel felt his fingers splayed flat across her skin and grew even warmer under his touch.

"Why?"

She felt his pulse skip behind her. The room remained quiet.

"Why what?"

She didn't expect a response, and thus left the air empty and a bit more vacant that usual.

"Why do we keep doing this?"

His usual snark seeped back into his words. "Because you were the one who initiated this in the first place, and then I—-"

When she cut him off, she had spoken his name. "That's not what I meant." She struggled with words. "…I've been thinking…"

The mattress shifted and she became a bit colder and knew he was leaning up to stare down at her. One hand glided atop hers and gave a small squeeze—he was doing it again—making her words jumble together.

"…You know…maybe…maybe we shouldn't…I mean, this all, maybe it's a mis—-" She was afraid to look at him, to see the expression he wore—anger, fear, shock?—so clearly on his features, just like they always were.

"Bel…" It was a nickname spoken in the heat of passion and it was never questioned and it just stuck. But he knew what she was trying to say and he knew it was going to come up sooner or later—he just didn't expect it to be _now_ ; he just hoped that it never happened.

The air grew colder in ways more than one, then the bed dipped behind her as he sat up. Still, she had to proceed.

"Maybe, with everything coming up, and these rumors…maybe we should just…maybe we…" She fidgeting with her middle finger's nail, refusing to turn over and see his face, because she was _truly_ afraid. Because she liked this—she loved what they had, what they've built together; of the rush when they were _together_ , the heat of his touch, the feel of him during sex and not, when his mouth and hands seemed to work and dance and perform a magic of their own… "Maybe we need ti-time…"

She didn't need to look behind her to know the rustle was him running a hand through his unruly, dark hair.

Isobel twisted the fingers of her left hand, unmoving, still in a slight fetal position.

Maybe this was a bad time to bring this up...

He exhaled very, very heavily.

Yeah, this was a bad time.

The mattress shifted once more as he turned to the end of his bed. She expected him to be more vocal about this—object, question _why_ , what he had _did wrong_ ; he was unnervingly silent. Isobel finally gained the courage to look over and saw him with an arm draped over a raised knee, his lower half still hidden and he was looking off into the distance, and she suddenly held a feeling of _guilt_.

"It—-this had nothing to do with you," she blurted, feeling suddenly responsible. "I've been contemplating it for some while now exactly and I—-"

She saw his jaw clench. He was grinding his teeth together, and she hoped he wouldn't look at her just yet—she wouldn't know what she would do if he turned his burning gaze to her.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing! Nothing…I…i-it's what I said: maybe..."

"Maybe… _Maybe, maybe, maybe_. It's because of _him_ isn't it?"

Isobel jumped at the harshness of his tone. This is what she was afraid of. "W-what are you talking about—-"

"Don't play _dumb_ , Isobel!" he snapped, glaring at her just like she feared. "I told you that he was nothing but bad luck."

"No, it's not! But…" Her brows brought together, realizing. "But what is it to _you_? That doesn't matter—-" He was one to talk about _bad luck_.

"Doesn't—-it _does_ bloody matter!"

"I told you I came to this by _my own_ bloody conclusion, _without_ anyone. What does any of my personal life have to do with you?"

That had struck a chord for some reason. "You've got to be kidding me…?"

And she could see it on his face, red lips parting and bright eyes growing for a split second, and that tinge of guilt returned. "And so what that I have relationships with other people besides _you_. You know, I never really thought of you to be the high and mighty kind—at least I hoped you weren't."

His jaw hung—they were having this argument _now_?

He didn't have a comeback for that one—never had he thought that that would come from _her_.

"I-I'm not on being _high and mighty_!"

""I don't like him"," she repeated his exact words a month ago. ""He's _bad luck."_ So suddenly everyone who isn't you suddenly isn't worthy without your almighty say-so?"

 _Why was she being like this?_

His jaw hung open.

Usually _he_ was the snarky one.

"That-that's not what I meant…!"

Isobel wanted to roll her eyes but thought he didn't deserve that just yet. "Then what _did_ you mean?" She wouldn't let herself look away and held his wide eyes with a hard, determined gaze.

The room was quiet. A bird squawked outside and there was a distant rumble of thunder.

He wet his lips, nervous; she wrung the fingers of her left hand. Hands clenched. She shifted her legs to the edge of the bed.

Brilliant hazel reflected in blazing jade.

And both nearly jumped out of their skins to a pound on the door.

The voice of a boy followed behind two more fist pounding on the heavy wooden bedroom door. "Oi! What's the big deal? Open up!" The voice then lowered, talking to another: "did one of you forget your key?"

A collection of "yeah"s that responded.

The boy beside Isobel flailed, jumping to his feet. "Shit! _Shit!_ " He scrambled for his clothes on the floor.

Isobel found her underwear and while searching for her bra, found her shirt and shorts instead, and hugged them to her chest.

"Hold on!" The boy across from her called, looking ridiculous as he hopped on one leg to fit through his jeans.

Isobel found her bra on the floor near the bed post. As she rushed to get it clasped, another pound and call came from the other side of the door: "What's taking so long?!"

"Give me a bloody _minute_ , will you?" The boy in the room zipped his pants and didn't bother with his shirt, leaving it to be found later.

Isobel slipped on her tank top just as the boy in here with her shooed her with a wave. At first, she glared at him, unsure of what he meant; and when she was shooed, she would have spoken against it wasn't for his hand covering her mouth again. She would have objected but thought it best not to get found and expelled, and as much as she hated it, wiggled into what little room there was under the bed.

She watched his bare feet pad to the door and the lock flip, and some cursing. Three pairs of shoes hurried in the room and she covered her mouth.

"What took you so long?" one boy called, not of the one she had been with.

"Why was the freakin' door locked?" voiced another.

"Well if you'd give me a _moment_ instead of rushing me," it was the boy Isobel had been with. "And it was locked because I was…busy."

"Busy?" That one obviously wasn't impressed.

There was a hesitant response.

Underneath the bed, Isobel's pulse was raising, wishing they hadn't stayed there and argued, and that she'd just left like she was supposed to.

 _Why didn't she just leave? Why had she stayed?_

 _What had stopped her…?_

A low squeak of hinges told that a window was being opened.

"You know what, never mind…" It was the voice that had repeatedly asked why the door was locked, the first voice they had heard.

The mattress above her squeaked as a weight sat at the edge—the boy who was lying for her. Around the room, bags were dropped and coats and scarves were shed and thrown on the top of chests at the foot of beds spread out in an annular design.

Isobel held her breath.

"Well since you're un-busy, you mind getting yourself together and joining us downstairs?" it was the first voice again, and he meant to the common room. "Ginny wants to talk to you."

"…You know..I'm still busy. I have to…have to...yeah." Isobel cringed at his terrible lying. "I'll be there in like five minutes."

Someone else objected. "Five minutes—-?"

" _Yes_ , five minutes."

"...Ok…"

Another brief, awkward silence clouded the bedroom, this one hitting all those inside. No one seemed to be moving, a pause in the rustling.

"Ok, can I have a minute to get decent," hands slapped to his jeans, obviously indicating the boy's lack of clothing, "and I'll meet you all downstairs?"

A collection of mumbled agreements sounded around the room and Isobel caught herself before letting out a sigh.

After another several moments, the extra three pairs of feet left. The boy in the room waited until their steps were faint echoes down the Boys Tower to tell Isobel that she could get up.

A few choice words were already falling from her tongue as she stood; the boy grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her to the door. She had to get out before one of his roommates turned back for something they forgot.

She saw that the boy's hair was still wild but he had finished dressing. Isobel clutched her shirt to her chest, since she hadn't had time to put it on, him practically dragging her down the winding staircase behind him. He only had to lead her to where The Boys staircase met with The Girls' at the landing that would also lead to the common room.

As they approached, she tugged her arm away, standing a step above him from behind as he whirled around. She saw his lips set in a line and ready to snap.

"Thanks but…don't think I've forgotten." She indicated about their mood-ruining argument.

His fire extinguished and his head dipped. He muttered that he knew.

Isobel folded her arms across her bosom and stared at him. There was no way they could get in trouble now, being on the dividing stairs landing. But their peeving had been extinguished and she was safe to ask now.

"Why were you so angry?"

He shrugged. "I seem to be a lot lately. I…" he cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to do that to you."

"But yet you were getting all bothered." It was something he needed to get straightened out, but she wasn't going to say that now, not yet.

"I wasn't _all_ _bothered_. I was…" He couldn't say it—moreso he knew he shouldn't say it to _her_. He only shook his head instead. "It's nothing."

And Isobel frowned. Here she was again—she knew that there was something that wasn't being said, something quite important and it was being held from her again. No one wanted to tell her anything—did they think she couldn't handle it?—and never had she thought she would receive this same treatment from _him_. This relationship had been built off of honesty and the lack of trust from others and a small tether between them that has since grown.

She had used this arrangement to get away from others who treated her this way. Never had she thought that it'd come from him too.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I've begun starting to want to write another story and therefore update this one periodically (it's NO WAY in cause of those of you who review. Thank you SO much for doing so) but I've honestly started to lose interest in this fwb story because it's started to feel too cliche and I don't like that. I feel like this story is starting to run into the ground, it's getting no hits, and I want to write more Dramione (for susiequeen because they've been so wonderful; thank you so much!) For a long time I've wanted to write something that's more….meaningful? (I don't think that's the right word.) like my Neptune story. I've wanted to write something that starts at the beginning with Isobel, Harry, Hermione Ron, Draco, all in first year and onward. I'm REALLY considering it and updating Mistakes Like This periodically. If I do, it would touch more on Isobel and Theo and their parents, Harry/Isobel, and Draco/Hermione. Should I go and start writing the story, would anyone read and review it?_**


	12. Unwrapping

**_A/N: this chapter has been sitting half-completed in my drafts for some time and with the completion of a different fic, I thought some might prefer to read it rather than it getting trashed? Since it's been, what a year that this fic hasty been touched?_**

 ** _To answer the question to a review_** ** _received: I apologize; I thought I made it clear how many people Isobel was seeing, my fault. The answer is two. Two guys she's seeing, one who she is starting to genuinely like, and another ho she's had friends with benefits relations with. It's...almost like one of those triangles but without the bottom connecting line._**

 ** _(This chapter is a direct continuation from the last, a week or so later.)_**

* * *

Harry's never liked Herbology class.

Some claim that it was an easy grade, to just _pot this_ and add that to a flower and water a plant _here_ with _this_ potion—and it _was_ relatively easy. But despite this and being introduced to this magical world for over years now, he just sometimes couldn't get used to the bizarre vegetation of all things. But that isn't the only reason—and it's beside the fact that some plants drip ooze or were far too toxic to touch or to inhale, and some had broken glass-like thorns and translucent petals—it wasn't just the fact that their professor this year was particularly _boring_ , but that too definitely added on to it.

This year's professor, a willowy man who never seems to be able to comb his hair properly enough to hide that growing bald spot, hands at the head of the class. Today, they are in the greenhouse and he is talking about something with yellow petals—but Harry could do nothing but glare, space out, and become increasingly _angry_ because there are problems of his own that he has to fix, persons to consult, and to study for a retake quiz, and—

Harry blinks as the professor asks a question and a few hands shot up. Hermione had answered the last one called so the professor just glances over her hand.

Harry looks across, and towards the front was a Hufflepuff named Justin who stands with his arm high and chest puffed, and with a look that Harry would _swear_ was another smug smirk to his no-good self.

Harry has another reason to hate Herbology.

"Ah, yes, Mister Fletchey?" the lamppost-thin professor acknowledges. Harry thinks the man constantly looks afraid when handling plants.

"It's grown in harsh, humid environments in the winter and colder temperatures in summer, and that's why it has to be kept here. Also, it's roots are used for infant medicine," the tall Hufflepuff answers, sounding much too sure of himself.

Harry wants to sneer.

The professor takes a moment to think, forgetting the right answer himself.

Neville sends Justin a grin—the boy has been studying.

Justin is told that his answer is correct; he puffs out his chest triumphantly and Harry feels sick—no, it was more like a churning, a faint warmth that is very close to turning into a flame.

Hermione Granger was closer to the front of class this time, and Harry realized that he hasn't seen much of her in the past several weeks. Ron, too, actually. Maybe, he supposes, he's been spending too much time with—

A few in the class applause for Justin's correct answer, and the boy grins widely.

Really, Justin is a nice, generous boy.

Harry holds in a sneer.

The last time he had seen Justin was while passing a study room. Harry had been on his way to get a snack before meeting up for Quidditch practice and had seen Justin on one of the plush purple couches in that lavish study that is always crowded. Justin had been seated next to someone whom, after Harry watched for a few seconds more, thought he recognized. But either or, he then had a sickly, heavy feeling in his stomach that made him realize that he suddenly wasn't hungry. He remembers feeling frustrated and taking out his emotions during practice.

Now in herbology class, that discouraged, jealous feeling returns, peeking over his shoulder like a monster and zero-ing in on the Hufflepuff boy who had become good associates with Neville.

 **. . . .**

Ginny's been actively avoiding Dean Thomas for over three months now—and almost everyone seems to know it. Well, it isn't that hard to tell—whenever he would come up or call for her, her air would just _decline_ and she'd become tight-lipped and give short sentences, and while she handles it all well on the outside and is more mature than others her age could say, it's prevalent that their relationship has shriveled up. They weren't going to make it. That they _haven't_ made it.

Then one day, she approaches him two days before a Quidditch match.

"Dean, we need to talk."

He also no longer smiles so widely for her, but unlike Ginny, he's tried to make this work.

Dean looks up at her still chewing on toast.

"Yeah?"

Ginny tightens her lips, forming a stressed, straight line.

"I think we need to start seeing other people." The words fall like water from a tap. "It just isn't going to work, is it? It's obvious—I mean, we just aren't compatible. And the way you acted during that last game, and—-"

Dean watches her, listened intently, and his brows only furrowed once, straightens and relaxes. But other than that, he remains quiet, cordial, mature.

"-—And I know you know the way I've been avoiding you recently, and—-"

Dean blinks. There's nothing he can say, because he's known too. It isn't that hard to see. But he liked Ginny, really had, but quickly learned that she was just...hard to love for someone like him. She is indeed brash, a firecracker, and periodically _rude_ , but that is what he had liked about her. She didn't try to sugarcoat. She didn't try to hide. She was blatant, honest—just like she is while telling him this.

But she also isn't the most sympathetic person, or willing to understand or listen or compromise. And that is also where this rift began.

"-—And I know—I see the way you're always with other people and the things you've said too. So, that's why also. I don't think this should go on when we both aren't clicking any longer."

After a breath and she finishes, there is silence.

Ginny had been prepared for a lash out, and is shocked to hear him utter a simple, "okay."

" _Okay_?!"

 **. . . .**

Hermione is fuming. How dare she?! How _could_ Ginny ever even suspect that she have any feelings for that pea brained, narssistic, honey brown haired Cormac— _Cormac_ of _all_ people! Really, how _dare_ she!

There was _no_ way Hermione could like him. Sure, with his chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw and he _did_ have a dazzling smile…and he wasn't _bad_ looking but...

There was no way she could fall for someone like him, completely hurling intellect and self-safety to the wind.

And Ginny had the _audacity_ to snicker when Hermione stammered over her words, Ginny and that other girl—Melanie.

She's heard that Melanie is very gossipy.

Hermione stomps down the hallway, chemically relaxed hair billowing and textbooks and parchment tucked in the crook of an arm. She was tense, visibly so.

She was in complete denial, and about many things—that the stress of this new Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher wasn't getting to her, that the looks she now receives amongst others and when she enters the common room isn't making her regret her _little_ _stunt_ before, that she didn't much _care_ that Ron and Harry were talking to her less now and that both seemed to be actively ignoring her...

Nope. Hermione raises her chin high, keeping her eyes trained ahead when a pair of Rlavenclaw girls caught sight of her and slinked away, one giving the Gryffinodr a nasty snarl.

No way; none of this is bothering her. It was all just her own mind, exaggerating things.

It was nearing noontime on this Saturday and luckily she hasn't run into Umbridge or Snape or Flich. Now that she thought about it, she hasn't seen either of the other trio either, brushing it off that Harry was off with either Dumbeldore or Mcgonagall again, and Ron had been captured by Lavender...

Hermione didn't mean to shiver in disgust, but she didn't try to hide it either. Her nose turned up on its own accord as well.

And their school, a supposed home away from home, now housed a vicious, controlling, abusive tyrant.

She should have never guessed that any of this would ever happen, and sometimes it shocked her. But then, her usually over-analyzing mind would find something _else_ to distract itself with. Her mind was like a constant train—going, going, going—or more like a sponge, giving she had a memory that rarely chose to forget. Which is when she catches Draco's sneer across the hall as she jolts back up after dropping—and then fumbling—a textbook and small bottle of ink, she shouldn't have been as surprised.

Hermione audibly in-takes a sharp breath.

"Much of a klutz, are you now, Granger?"

For a second, her pulse jumps to her throat and her ever-so-brilliant brain forgot what words were and how to form them, and she instead stands glowering back at his ever-so-smug and _Slytherin_ smirk.

"Malfoy," she begins, and then words flash across her mind. "Watch it, will you. With _your_ track record, it'd be amazing you could even so much as hold a _bottle_ without losing it."

Draco hasn't had a good streak when it came to Quidditch lately, and it became a running gag with the snitch continuously slips thorough his fingers—literally.

The boy's eyes widen and then flash angrily but a second later it's gone as he swallows his emotions. "No one asked for your crummy opinion."

"And yet you offer yours...?" Her head tilts and she allows a smug smirk of her own to appear on her face and with the raise of a brow.

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't being so..."

"So?"

He sneers and she raises her chin and turns on her heels. Hermione can see the library door at the end of the corridor and consciously quickens her pace. She realizes that he's following her when he matches her speed.

He huffs. "So...bloody distracting!" an insult finally coming to mind. The words come out in a spat and Hermione almost halts in her steps but the doors to the library were approaching and she was almost there. She does falter, however.

"Oh, and _I'm_ the distracting one? Says the _oh-so-talented_ one who _criticizes_ and _taunts_ anyone who doesn't seem to fit his narrow criteria?" She refuses to look at him but can see in her peripheral that her remark hits and stings. "Just remember, _I'm_ not the one going around distracting others by making everyone despise me and having to worry about what I'm going to criticize about them next."

Both enter the library then and Hermione ignored the echoing footsteps as she rounded the corner to return her borrowed books. Draco waits until Madam Pince, the librarian, finishes and remains on the brunette's tail as she travels to the maze of bookshelves, earning a few pointed looks in the process from his presence.

"So now you think you're entitled to monitor me? Lest I remind you, _Malfoy_ , you—-"

"Someone's going to have to make sure you don't trip like a troll from your oversized feet—and it's not going to be me. Since you're so helpless, why don't you go ask your _boyfriend_ to do it for you?"

Hermione gapes. "And I'm sure that you'd _love_ that, wouldn't you—I'll make sure to tell _Pansy_ how _helpless_ you are since you want to be treated like a _princess_."

His nose turns up once more.

He doesn't try to follow her then, letting her disappear into the shelves and for a moment he forgets what he originally came here for. He has a textbook and a sheet of parchment, like her, but there's something else he's supposed to do, some book he is supposed to get—for Blaise? For Pansy?

 _Why_ had he gone on this errand trip anyway?

Hermione's gone now so there is no reason for him to stay.

Draco looses count of how long he stares off into the open space, imaging what might have happened if she'd stayed. Would she have kicked him this time? Would she have insulted him? Or simple make that small wrinkle appear on her nose that he always found it hard to look away from?

A boy in a Hufflepuff uniform enters the aisle behind and Draco watches from over his shoulder as the boy silently reshelves the books in his arms one by one, casting suspicious and anxious glances toward the Slytherin.

Draco sniffs.

He doesn't want to admit that, perhaps, Granger _had_ been right. She doesn't really manipulate the truth, so, _maybe_...

But who is he to care? He certainly does not.

The Hufflepuff boy inches forward very, very warily, and tries—and fails—to avoid eye contact with the blonde Slytherin.

Draco turns, balling his hands into fists, and stomping off and around the corner.

"Granger!" he hisses.

Rounding the corner, and meets the brunette's wide-eyed glare with a narrowed, judging one of his own. Draco pauses—freezes, actually—and...and his words don't quite come out right.

And she's bristling.

He puffs his chest again, balls his fists tighter, digging his nails into his palms, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"You meddling, nosey git!" She hiss-yells. "Do you not know what 'take a hike' means? Or are you the completely daft?"

A sort of tense, strangled silence passes—of Draco staring her down five footsteps away—and she turning up her nose at the glaring green emblem on his robe.

He frowns. He scowls.

And Hermione's look of complete shock when he merely dips his head respectively is a snapshot he wishes he could have hung in a gilt frame so he could gloat over it daily.

She remains rooted in place for a couple more seconds of him staring at her expectantly before she chokes out a begrudging, "Malfoy," and continues glaring. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you're following me. Again."

But it isn't like he's _not_ holding the same condescending sneer.

He can practically _hear_ Pansy's shrill voice practically _screeching_ in his ears, of her spitfire insults flying like his should have been, and he wonders when did she ever become his conscious?

Hermione noisily turns another page of the book in her arms and doesn't turn her glare away from his, waiting expectantly for an insult, an object thrown, a mumbled jinx, some _thing_.

Draco dips his head again, and this time looks off to the side and refuses to meet her eyes.

"I..I..."

Hermione watches him swallow uneasily and her eyes enlarge for a second.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're such a bookworm. Since you practically _live_ in here, so, I'd imagine you're more useful than that century old hag back at the front." He means the librarian. "Where's the encyclopedia about centaurs?"

Hermione feels a twitch at the ends of her lips but keeps her composure. She'd let him think he won this time, but when she turns her back, she lets her devilish, triumphant smirk grow.

 **. . . .**

"You need to eat something, mate. You don't look so well." Hagrid offered.

"I'm fine—" Harry pushes the cup of tea away. It's terribly bitter and he's learned to never come to Hagrid's hungry—and he's done well so far until today, that is. He hasn't been thinking very thoroughly lately, and he knows that this slip-up is all his fault. "—Actually!" Harry adds in haste.

Hagrid's brows draw together.

"You know you missed Hermione a couple hours ago. Said you've been acting rather _funny_ for a while now."

Harry is confused.

"Yeah, she sounded rather concerned...and sad, to tell you the truth."

Harry muses, "I don't know why..."

Hagrid perks, hearing what Harry didn't mean for him to.

"Well we haven't been talking much lately." And Harry watches the demi-giant go from confused himself, to concern, to a sense of realization. "It's nothing!" The student tries to diverge this all.

"Well if you don't want to tell me, you don't got to—"

"It's nothing. Really."

"... _Nothing_?"

"Honest!"

The chair shakes slightly as the other flops onto his single couch chair and slides off his oven mittens. "Well it's good to see you Harry. Even though if you want to talk about _nothing_."

"Honest!"

"And I'm sure you are!" Hagrid picks up his own cup of tea, and tosses in what looked like blades of fennel. "You're a smart, brave kid, so I know you're going to be just fine..."

Harry scoffs.

Hagrid stops stirring. "Well what was that for?"

And, unknown how loud he had been, Harry blinks in alarm. "Nothing! It was—!" His mouth snaps shut. Knowing he probably shouldn't repeat the same answer again, he drinks from the oversized teacup. Coughs. There's dark tealeaves floating; Harry places it back on the counter. "A...actually, Hagrid? I would like to ask for your advice?"

The demi-giant seems to perk up at this and offers any kind of assistance. He's grown quite fond of Harry and his two other frequent Gryffindor visitors, and is willing to do any and all that he could.

"I...have this friend, see? He—she— _they_ are a bit..." Harry's hands roll around in a circle, thinking of a way to arrange his words carefully. "They're, uh—"

"You need advice for a friend? Ok." Hagrid takes a sip. "Tell me about this friend."

"Well, for starters, they aren't—they aren't in Gryffindor..." Harry pauses to gauge Hagrid's response. "And...they might... _maybe_ like someone of a different house, but—"

"But it's complicated?"

"Yes."

"And do this friend of yours on good standing terms with this other person?"

"Yes, he likes her." Harry begins wringing his hands together. And then he becomes flustered, running his words together and tripping, crashing. "Because they're already talking—or seeing—or, or _whatever_ , and it's, it's complicated because they've been talking to someone else who might like them, but then there's their _friend_ and it's turned into a web of things and I—I don't know what to tell them to _do_ , or even to think, or _choose_ —"

"Ok. _So_ ," Hagrid begins. "This... _friend_ of yours sounds like _they're_ in a pickle." He takes another sip as Harry nods with enthusiasm. He takes his sweet time to reply—which is another cup of tea later. "What I would tell this friend is this," he empties his second cup of tea. "Do whatever you feel like your heart's telling you. Go with your gut feeling."

"But what if there's rules?"

"What rules?!"

"Um, you know. Uh, rules like dating someone who's too many years ahead of you, and...stuff."

"This is true." Takes another drink. "But you know with this _friend_ of yours, they should really just talk it out. That's my advice. A spider doesn't catch anything on its own. He needs to work to catch his prey. Which helps in the long run so that pests don't get everywhere. So I would fix this, if I were you. Or this friend should.."

Harry's lips press in a line. Nods once.

 **. . . .**

On his way back up the stairs toward the Gryffindor Tower, Harry runs into Cho Chang. His eyes wonder and his ears grow hot and he stammers, trips, blunders over his words pathetically.

She smiles politely, quickly hurrying along with her friends.

His smile shows a little too much teeth.

 **. . . .**

Dolores Umbridge is a menace, that much has been established quite rigorously throughout the Hogwarts school.

The Bubblegum Troll, she's nicknamed. "A giant bottle of Pepto Bismol!" by muggleborns and halfbloods.

The creepy cat woman.

The devil's own twin sister.

Umbridge isn't liked, and isn't invited for teacher luncheons, and the lounge quiets whenever she enters. The may be a menace, but one you cannot simply pick off and flick back into unemployment—unlike the past professors—because she's in close contact with The Ministry. Because she's in such close contact of The Ministry, she has to be watched and stalked like a toddler carrying a firelighter. She's a spoiled brat, an imp let on a very loose, practically nonexistent leash.

Because she's in such good standing with The Ministry, Umbridge has nearly free range to do as she pleases. Like criticize the Headmaster, and threaten his Assistant, McGonagall. Like she does when she began hanging plaques on the wall beside the doors of The Great Hall.

Students will gather under and throw up middle fingers in private. Umbrage hangs up _new rules and regulations_ like they're back in fucking preschool. Like they're in some type of organized penitentiary.

She's taken over Lupin's office and there is still a fare amount of biter and resentment on the fact. Students and staff hate her, increasing with every plaque she orders Filch to hang. Students are desperate to work around the DADA class but to no avail.

And she's hated more.

 **. . . .**

It's two weeks later and Harry is shuffling back and forth behind his Quidditch team. The sky is overcast. There's a chance of rain showers. Possibly thunderstorms.

Because of the craziness that's arising and exams next year, there hasn't been much time for practice.

He tries calling for their attention as help as the captain, Angelina, arrives. But his voice breaks off oddly, becoming hoarse. Eventually, he's successful and Angelina explains the practice game plan.

Ginny narrows her eyes, watching from the bleachers as Harry rub his throat as he speaks.

"Now let's try to get this down before _Pepto Bismol_ ," Angelina spits the name like venom, not unlike others whenever the devil's mentioned, "or something else interrupts again."

The rest of the players nod their agreement. But even afterwards, Ginny keeps a watchful eye.

She catches up to Harry within the walls of the castle after practice finishes. It takes her calling him more than once to get finally get him to slow down.

"Where are you going, rushing like that?" She hopes her smile appears nonthreatening.

"Nowhere." He doesn't slow his pace. His grip tightens around his broomstick. Eyes trained straight ahead. Jaw grinding and vein protruding.

"Then why don't you _slow_ and walk like a normal person?"

"Why don't you stop pestering people?"

That is it. Ginny runs ahead and stops directly in his path. "Harry Potter, answer me. What are you so in a rush for?"

He shuffles. He's antsy, wanting to barge past, but knowing better, decides against it. "I'm...I'm going to talk with Hermoine." It's a lie. It's an obvious lie.

Ginny casts her eyes down, but only for a moment. "Oh."

"Yeah." He speaks a little too arrogantly, "now if you'd excuse me, Ginny..."

"I'll excuse but I don't like it." She steps aside, going the alternative way into the common room.

He's been changing lately. His attitude, his demeanor. Well, _most_ of it's remained the same but there are secrets, she can tell, she _guesses_. She's sure that she mustn't be the _only_ one to notice. But is he really going to answer to _her_ when neither Hermione nor Ron have answers?

As soon as he reaches his bedroom, Harry removes Quidditch his gear and retires to the showers.

It's been weeks since Umbridge called him to her office and he was forced to use that cursed writing quill. Turning over his hand, the scar there is slightly discolored, a shade darker than the rest of his complexion. He can feel the raised skin and feels a sudden surge of anger remembering the incident.

Prior, Hermione had been questioning him on rather personal detail—like where he'd been while supposedly studying, and the origin of his sudden limp, Ginny's concern of his wellbeing at the suspicion of secrets. And after the scar Umbridge caused, his friend began watching him more closely.

Harry sighs, runs his hands through his hair feeling the water from the showerhead rinse his face.

Ginny, Luna, and Dean had all spoken to him that he's been acting a bit _differently_ , and now—and worse—Hermione is too. This raises several caution flags inside his mind, especially when the memory of Cedric Digory's death flashes.

The water is turning to cold.

Harry rubs his face, forces the memory to the back of his mind. Simultaneously, he makes a mental note to mind his behavior and what phrases to leave out of his vocabulary to avoid further suspicion.

He prays that it's the play of his overactive imagination and his overthinking, over-worrying.

 **. . . .**

The thing about Theo—

The _thing_ about Theo is—is that he's such a fucking _brooder_.

Isobel watched him from across the stacks of Magical Ailments And Remedies, Astronomy, and a worn, leather-bound book of Advanced Spell-casting. The grey feather affixed to the end of her quill pen tickled the underside of her jaw as she stared, studied, skeptical. He remained seemingly ignorant on how to knot a tie; he's holding his pen between his lips, and his wand lies abandoned atop the hard, wooden study table. The jet black of his hair is in need for another trim, but when Isobel suggested it, even from a distance his bright hazel eyes glare and glint and _puncture_ —consistently a fucking beacon for avoidance and the development of fairly applicable nicknames. That's the assumption about him—stone cold and dull, condescending and confident.

He is all of these things, yes, but—

Theo broods and he _sulks_. He is always criticizing Isobel about how she should pay more attention to her _studies_ and less of _lallygagging_ _around_. She used to listen, believing that he knew what was best. Now, she knows better; now, she rolls her eyes instead.

Her older brother is a pocket-protecting amalgam of pressed Dockers slacks and neatly-ironed button-downs, skinny wool Slytherin ties and scuffed black loafers, and sour, surly attitudes _God_ , his attituide is atrocious—the flipped coin side to hers, most have commented. Their adopted parents speak of this assumption often.

Still—he's tall, and he's lanky, and there's something confusingly _enthralling_ about his big hands and his long fingers, his precise movements and his perfect posture and his _face_ , clear and angular, a strong nose and a square chin and a pair of offensively _bright_ eyes that frankly don't _belong_ on an uptightl, stressed wreck of a seventh year student. He's attractive. _Incredibly_ attractive. And it's puzzling. It's frustrating, and it's _annoying_ , too, because Isobel has an O.W.L. to study for and an upcoming pop quiz in potions she was informed about and there's some club speech she's to help Lavender prepare for and she doesn't have _time_ to listen to her brother sit and _chastise_ her like some pathetic first year _groupie_.

And he's never liked the word _no_.

 _No_ was the mile-deep fissures around his mouth when he frowns, gaze clearer than crystal ball glass and twice as thick with disappointment when she was sorted into Gryffindor. _No_ was his heavy, expectant silence when Isobel struggled to explain herself, the imperious arch of her brows and the mint-fresh apathy of her sighs when she failed to come up with a convincing counterargument for him to answer her questions about their past and "why?" _No_ was the burning lurch of too much lemon in the tea, and the icy pinch of disdain echoing from every conceivable corner of the room, and the piercing judgment of Theo's almost _disdain_ when Isobel revealed that she's continued going to Professor Snape against her brother's wishes.

 _No_ was a denial. A rejection. An implicit surrender of control.

The next time Isobel attends extra credit teaching with the dark potions wizard, there isn't much talking besides instructions.

The class room is dark and empty. The cauldron she has been leaned over for the past half hour has drawn a thin sheet of sweat to form across her skin. Her professor stalks back and forth the room, simultaneously tidying his office as Isobel's mind wonders, thinks, remembers her brother.

Just then, as if he'd _heard_ her thinking about him, Snape turns around, deep black robes billowing like clouds of smog, a disinterested pull added to his usual frown, finger raised as if recalling an important event. Collar buttoned up to his chin, his lips pucker, open, close. Isobel raises a brow, quizzingly. He rolls back his sleeves before rushing over.

"No, no, no, no, no, no—"

Isobel raises the ladle from the cauldron in innocence and jumps away as Snape retrieves his wand, waving it at the cauldron. He scolds her on her continuous split concentration. The potion was about to boil over, the liquid strong enough to dissolve everything it touches, he explains.

"Oh." She looks to the laces of her shoes, to the frothing green along the cauldron's rim.

Not wasting a beat, her professor twirls on his toes. " _Oh_?"

Isobel's face begins heating. "Um, I—I—"

"What has gotten into you, Miss MacDougal? ...Have you been getting _distracted_? I hope this little _incident_ will be corrected as a _one time_ _occurrence_...lest I rethink my decision to continue this apprentice—"

At first her response is louder than intended, impulsive, and a _rude_ "No!" Then, lowering her tone, she corrects herself, apologizing. "No, sir. I'm not. I'm just—"

"Reckless," he finishes, raises a judging brow.

" _Confused_ ," she corrects. "It won't happen again." And she ignores his secure comment of _"I hope not."_

Next, the potion requires the slime of a spotted slug she's never heard of; she must squeeze out the slime by hand. Isobel doesn't hold in her snarl of disgust. The candlelight flames around the classroom flicker and crackle. There is the faint ambience of water, a pungent scent of magic in the air. Footsteps of students or staff down the hall, giggles, snickering. The clanging of glass as Snape gathers large colored potion bottles used from his previous class. It's quiet; lately, Isobel doesn't favor the silence. It allows too much thought. Thus, she attempts conversation:

"So, how did it go with the evil Pepto Bismol? The pink pimple of The Ministry?"

There's already tension running throughout the entire castle caused by the aforementioned witch. Recently, she's been conducting interviews, rating, and analyzing the school's professors and staff like experiments. Days earlier, Snape had been one of them. Class was released early that day.

Snape tries to hold in a snicker but she still hears. Isobel had to explain what the medication is in the past so the professor could understand the insult.

"It went...adequately."

She wrinkles her nose as she squeezes out the third and final slug needed for the potion. Lips pull back in revolt.

He warns, "mind the edge of the cauldron." Reem's blood, crushed bat nails, and some kind of blue dust is added next, all in silence and Isobel's mind is racing, racing, speculating, springing to conclusions about subjects off topic. About her deal with Snape and the list of questions about he parents that she still hasn't asked. About those that were revealed, ones Theo once lied to her face about—about her mother and her authoritative gait, her regal guise, that Isobel is so obviously her child.

The final task for her extra training today is to wave her wand in a complicated formation. Snape instructs her to watch him perform the movement once more before doing it herself on the concoction. His wrists are exposed so she could see the motions and he's focused, gaze set, focused. And so she takes this moment of distraction to speak.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

She goes ignored, told to perform the pell before the potion is ruined. She begins and repeats her question.

Sighs. "I should probably get rid of those disastrous questions."

Isobel frowns, honestly hurt. "Professor...?"

She glances over her shoulder. He's standing beside her.

He's glaring.

Her gaze diverges.

She completes the spell as instructed. The potion simmers down to a clear, off-yellow.

Snape sighs heavily—there was no way she would back down from questioning, he knew; she wouldn't easily. That much he's learned about her unbreakable curiosity throughout the years. Seen her grow and mature, hardening from an impressionable and pliable child. She's grown to be headstrong, quite beautiful and _purposive_. And that was part of the problem.

"That requires a...very _difficult_ response."

"Then could you tell it the best way you can?" Her eyes plead, heartbeat speeds. Her breath lodges, bated, hopeful.

Snape holds his words for several more moments. Turns to walk to his desk. He's fidgeting, Isobel doesn't see. "Has your brother mentioned anything of your past recently?"

She shakes her head, remembers that his back is toward her. Speaks, "no. Nothing other than fairytales. Most of it the same things that you've told me. But still..."

"But still..." He nods. Inhales an uneven breath. "But still... He's right. Partially."

Isobel begs him to continue on. Reluctantly, the professor does.

"You're mother... Her whereabouts are unknown. Just...as your father." Snape wrings the fingers of his right hand. "But I do remember that she was," what sounds like a smile seeps into his voice, " _extraordinary_. Exceptional. As for her name, that is likely best unmentioned—"

"No," she blurts impulsively again. Immediately, she apologizes but she doesn't mean it. A highlighter is retrieved from her bag of school materials.

Snape's eyes are wide. He swallows. Hesitates. "Her name," he idly flips through a textbook, acts as if he is thumbing through graded parchment papers, "was Arabella."

The capped yellow highlighter is clutched between her hands. "Arabella," she repeats, lost of breath, words escaping her. "That's her name...?"

"The last time I saw her was over twelve years ago. I'm not able to reveal her location even if I wanted to." Though there isn't a hint of remorse in his tone.

Isobel sits, churning this over in her mind. Theo was wrong yet again, she realizes, having lied that everything about their mother had been forgotten, that she had been just another unfortunate bystander who's name and dates couldn't be retrieved. He even said that she had been a muggle which she found out that _that too_ was untrue. Yet with every question Snape has been able to answer, Isobel finds how much her brother has lied throughout all of the years.

"That's ok." She turns over the highlighter. "Does...does she...does she know about us—"

"I'm unable to answer that."

"Are you unable to because you don't want to, or because you can't?"

He turns forward, leaning along the corner of his long desk, is picking at his fingernails beneath the sleeves of his robe. "I'm unable to answer..." And her bright eyes are wide, questioning, pleading. "...Because I can't."

The shine in her eyes dim. She nods.

Isobel's mouth goes a tiny bit dry. "Could... Could you... Could you tell me if she was, you know, a halfblood—or a pureblood—or—or— _something_ , because I remember you saying that she _wasn't_ completely magic and she _wasn't_ a muggle, so—"

Snape's lips press into a tight, thin line. "Not... _precisely_..."

"Not precisely how?"

And the sweat-damp heel of his palm reaches out to press against the glass of a lit antique-styled candle lamp. He hesitates. "...She was neither, since you must know."

"What does that mean?"

Then his eyes steel, as if he's suspicious. "Have you found that it's quite easy for you to persuade others? ...Or gain control over your stronger emotions?" A smudge of jet-black ink is streaked across the back of one of his hands.

Isobel's nose wrinkles, confused. "I haven't really thought about it. Theo asked me the same thing. ...May I ask why?"

Snape is standing before the carved wooden deck of his classroom, candlelit shadow flickering along to the sound of the sizzling concocted potion and against rows of needlepointed capped bottles, book spines of bright-white and tinged yellow like a bruise and added leather, while her ears ring raw and hollow from the bass drum stomps of her own anxious heartbeat. There's a churning avalanche of metaphoric water—anxiety, anticipated, and fear; god there's fear—and it's soupy like sea salt foam and serrated from rain water, and she's the single passenger on this little wooden boat-ship of assurance riding the swirling tide of dread and fear and inevitability.

The mast of her metaphoric boat-ship cracks.

All the foam has simmered down inside the cauldron.

The air stills.

The shelves of preserved of exotic ingredients and animal parts turn ghastly. Unconsciously, her jaw tightens, fingernails pierce the skin of her palms. Her little boat-ship of stability and state of mind is blown against of jagged grey rocks of disclosure that pierces the hull which she wants to believe, now, will be the most disenthrall thing.

Until it isn't.

Still, Snap hesitates, regretting each word. "It's because—there's a very high...probable chance...that your mother was a Veela."

The mast cracks.

The air stills.

Isobel blinks against the flickers of orange and yellow and jet grey in her perhiperal, and then a tie-dye twist of powerful emotions of _somethings_ swishes inside her chest, burns down her legs, her spine, stretches her arms, prices behind her eyes, tingles under her skin, bubbling up her throat. She swallows it down. Her expression is open and it's equal parts startling and equal parts unsettled.

 _"Your mother was a Veela."_

For years, Theo has known best—it was law, the younger Isobel once believed—even after they were adopted. He's controlling and sneaky, conniving, judgmental. He's overprotective and assumes far too much, and _hates_ being told _no_ , almost to the point of creating whirlwind storms, like he's never actually _not_ been given what he's ever wanted, effortlessly. Most things go his way, the way he wants. And he's attractive. _Incredibly_ attractive, as Isobel has been regarded as— _slightly above average_ , actually, on a good day. Sometimes she wants to transfigure Theo into a lizard. Or a mouse. Secure him in a jar.

 _"Your mother was a Veela."_

The ocean of apprehension swallows her whole.

Isobel has never seen clearer.

It all makes sense now.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I hope this long chapter helps make up for the extensive absence?_**

 ** _This chapter is being uploaded solely due to the reviews received not too long ago that singlehandedly revived my awareness and desire to add on to this fic. It's all to you reviewers! (Also please, please, please review!)_**


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